


The Curse

by Maryassassina



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 81,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maryassassina/pseuds/Maryassassina
Summary: All is fair in love and war...or so they say. And whilst some live out this principle to the fullest, others have to learn it the hard way... a story about two ( slightly... difficult ) people falling in love against all odds, with all the risks involved.Set after S3/03, when Simcoe is pursuing Robert Rogers, and taking quite a different turn from there.





	1. Marian, Queen of Dirt and Tragedy

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first attempt in fan fiction and dubious contribution to all the wonderful works I found here. I am by no means even trying to be historically correct, but then, neither is the show;) English is not my first language, so please go easy on me. In fact, this is happening only because I translated all my favorite fics in order to read them to my sister, and she kind of forced me to write my own...so yes, it's all your fault!

 

**Prologue**

 

_Dornoch in Sutherland, North-East of Scotland, 1727_

_Janet Horne, the town's old midwife and known as a wise woman for many years, had been judged guilty of witchcraft and sentenced to be burned at stake._

_Several of her very neighbours had accused her of absurd practices, like having used her daughter as a pony to ride to the Devil, where she had her shod by him._

_She was stripped, smeared with tar, paraded through the town on a barrel and burned alive. Just before the stakes were ignited, the eyes of the old woman searched the crowd of spectators and finally fixated on the man she knew to be her main accuser, a honorable merchant of groceries._

_"Nathaniel Hewlett ! " she cried out. " How many times have I helped your wife giving birth to your children? You know just as well as I do that her death was not my fault. For what you've done I will put a curse on you. I pass on my passion for medicine and my healing powers to you and your eldest when you die, into the seventh generation, but it shall bring you no joy, for you and your descendants will only save the people you hate and inevitably bring death to the ones you love the most. This is my curse and it can only be broken if you find -and save from death- a person which is both- which means it can't be broken, I guess." She let out a hoarse, unhappy laugh._

_"Burn the witch!" someone cried. The crowd had- more or less unintentionally- moved away from the man, who had been cursed. The sheriff's assistants hurried to set the stake on fire._

_Nine years after her death, the witchcraft acts were repealed in Scotland._

_But only one year later, Nathaniel Hewlett, whose number of customers and friends had noticeably decreased after the event, decided to pass his business to his brother and start fresh in England, where nobody knew of this strange curse. He had begun to drink heavily and died soon after, and somewhat thriumphantly that the curse had not touched him, leaving the responsibility for his remaining family on the shoulders of his 20 year- old son, Jeremiah. Oddly enough,the young man had lately discovered a passion for the healing arts and decided to become a doctor._

_Beaulieu, Southhamptonshire, 50 years later._

 

" _Marian_!"

Dorothy Fane, Lady Montagu, drops the letter from her plump, richly beringed fingers and catches her breath from the exhausting ( and most annoying ) effort to call for her niece, who, though supposed to sit over her embroidery in the chamber next to the parlor, doesn't seem to hear her.

She frowns, and, heavyweight and short of breath as she is, pulls herself from her chair and walks over to the door of the small parlor. She opens it, only to find the room empty, except for a black maid, who is busy stitching a lace- trimmed bonnet.

The girl looks up, then slightly bows her head in her typical sulky way that infuriates her even more than the obvious abscence of her mistress.

"M'lady."

"Where is she?" Lady Montagu gasps out and holds a hand to her expansive bosom.

The maid shrugs, but at a furious glance from the impressive lady of the house, she rises to her feet, although not too quickly.

"I'll go get her."

Lady Montagu suppresses the urge to slap her in that stupid, stubborn face. "Hurry up! I have something important to tell her. "

"Yes M'lady."

The girl strolls away and she sighs heavily, walks back to her secretaire and picks up the letter again.

Which has obviously travelled a long way. The address on the back of the envelope says:

_Major Edmund Hewlett, Setauket, New England_

She grimaces at the provincial sound of the town's name. Sounds like a godforsaken place of a town. How _apt_.

The door opens to a tall and gawky girl of eighteen. Her face beneath unkempt blonde tangles wears the familiar mix of alertness, guilty conscience and defiance. She casts her eyes down and sinks into an awkward little curtsy.

"Aunt Dorothy. You called for me?"

"I called for you _fifteen minutes ago_. Where have you been? Not at your needlework, I know that much."

The girl flushes and looks up at her with the disturbing, bright feline eyes of her younger sister, which had inspired lovesick poets back in the days. Lady Montagu presses her lips to a thin line. "Well?"

"I- outside. In the garden." the girl says.

"In the garden, I see. For a walk?"

"I- yes."

Lady Montagu raises her eyebrows. " And without your parasol again, I assume? "

"Ummm-" The girl casts a quick glance at the grey october afternoon outside the window.

Lady Montagu's fingers start tapping impatiently at her desk. "Come here. Show me your hands."

The girl's flush deepens as she comes closer and tentatively presents the corpus delicti hidden in her back- a poor bunch of herbs clutched in muddy fingers.

"I was going to make a potion for Sally," she defends herself. " She has been feverish this morning."

"Your ministrations for the menial staff are highly praisable, Marian." her aunt says dryly. "I wish you cared only half as much for the welfare of your own kind."

Marian opens her mouth to protest but her aunt cuts her off with a resolute gesture of her jewelled hand.

" _Don't_!" she hisses. "If it was up to me, you could move to the servant's quarters any day, as it seems to be your secret desire. God knows, we need every helping hand. What I don't need, though, is a- a wannabe doctor who spoils the maids at the slightest sign of indisposition. They are lazy enough as it is. Next you'll be telling me, poor Sally should stay in bed all day."

Marian shakes her head at such blockheaded ignorance. "So you expect me not to help her just because I might spoil her? Even though she might be seriously ill?"

Lady Montagu snorts in disgust. " A little melodramatic, aren't we? Just like your mother was. See what good that did her. I shouldn't have allowed you to keep that "doctor's stuff" in the first place. But since it was all he bequeathed you- and I have a soft heart, that's it. Always had."

She sighs and looks at the ungrateful girl in front of her. On closer examination, her dress is not too clean either. There are traces of mud along the hems of her skirt and her shoes... _dear Lord_.

God knows, I tried, she thinks to herself. Marian, keeping her lips pressed tight in order to suppress a disrespectful reply, thinks exactly the same. They stare at each other for a long, silent moment, until Lady Montagu sighs anew and clears her throat. "Very well. "

She gestures at the letter on her secretaire. "The reason I wanted to talk to you- is _this_. It's a letter from your uncle. _On your fathers side_." she adds, when the girl raises her eyebrows in question.

"His name is Edmund Hewlett. He is a major in the British Army. Stationed in New England. _America_. Do you remember him?"

She does, albeit shadowy. He had visited them now and then when her mother was still alive. And once or twice afterwards.

She recalls warm brown eyes, a kind smile and a soft voice declaiming poems to the stars. It is hard to imagine him on a battlefield. She has not heard a word from him in years. _Not even, when_...

Marian swallows and opens her mouth: " I haven't seen him since I was a child. What- what does he write?"

"Well, he sends his deepest condolences on your fathers death- but please, sit and read for yourself."

Marian takes the letter from her hand. It is dated three months ago. Ususally the voyage would take three weeks, maybe four, but in times of war-no wonder, he has not written earlier.

She sinks into one of the exquisite armchairs and feels her eyes fill with tears at the warm, genuine words of sympathy she reads.

Edmund Hewlet and her father had only been half-brothers, and almost ten years apart, still they had evidently been, _close_. Marian wonders briefly, if things would have turned out differently, had her uncle been around more often. God knows, her father would have needed a friend. But he'd had only her. And what a poor substitute she had made-quickly, she swipes the thought away. It is too painful. And _fatal_ , on top of that.

She swallows back her tears and rereads the last lines.

Then again.

Marian looks up to her aunt, who watches her silently, her expression unreadable. "He wants me to come and live with him!" she says incredulously. "To America. To-" she frowns and looks at the letter again. "Se- _tauket_?"

"Indeed." her aunt confirms. ( In fact, Major Hewlett had phrased in a somewhat chivalrous way, that he wished to "hold his protecting hand over his niece in the future"- which meant nothing less than paying for her expenses as well. )

"What do you think about it?"

Marian stares at her, open-mouthed, too stunned for words. _And looking more than ever like a half-witted country miss,_ her aunt thinks with a frown of disapproval.

"Well," she puts on an encouraging tone, obviously mistaking her niece's reaction for indecison. "It's not New York. Or Philadelphia. Where the more- _elegant_ circles reside. Nearby, though. And in fact, " she can't help adding, " Considering your upbringing-a fishing village seems to be a more suitable place for you than New York- let alone _London_ , don't you think?"

Marian gives her a look that makes her wince internally. "Most likely." she replies flatly.

Lady Montagu straightens and ruffles herself up in all her self- righteousness.

"You think me cruel, don't you?" she asks. "Think me unjust? Believe me, girl, I'm anything but. I know it's not your fault. I'm worried about your future, that's all. You can't stay here forever. The times are hard enough for me, as it is-"

She casts a quick glance around her elegantly decorated parlor.

"I've done my best, no one could deny that. But-as you well know, your father left you with _nothing_. _I_ cannot provide you with a dowry and even _if_ I could-I doubt it would help much, especially after what you did to poor Mr Delany..."

Marian frowns at the tactless reference to her former dancing teacher.

"Poor Mr Delany", although desperate at her lack of grace, had not backed off from giving her a private lesson throughout which he had placed his sweaty little hands on very inappropriate parts of her body- and it had been rather the mere shock than intention from her side, that had made her push him away so harshly, that he had stumbled against a cupboard and buried himself in shards of her aunts good crystal...

"And it's not just that." Lady Montagu goes on.

Marian rises from her chair. "I understand you quite well." she says quickly. "Believe me, you don't have to convince me."

She pauses and watches her aunt's features change from indignation about the interruption to evident relief at her reason.

"I would really like to see my uncle again. And if I have to go to America for it, well-so be it."

Lady Montagus stern face softens a touch at her words.

"Things are different in the colonies." she says somewhat encouragingly. "Nobody knows you there, nobody will care about your background. I guess, this is true for men of humble beginnings such as your uncle, as well as for- unfortunate girls like you, child."

Her voice has suddenly taken on an oddly unfitting motherly tone. " _I only ever wanted the best for you-_ "

"I know, Aunt Dorothy."

Marian wishes very much, she would be allowed to retreat, now. She wants to be alone when she reads the letter again, to make sure she isn't dreaming after all.

"And I know, how hard it must have been for you, really I do. I am grateful for everything, but you're right. I cannot stay here forever."

The lady of the house eyes her suspiciously at the unfamiliar modest tone of her words.

Marian casts her eyes down, a perfect imitation of humility, while her feet are prickling with the anticipation to run.

"Very well, " her aunt says at least. " We will talk about everything later." She shrugs her shoulders, dropping the heavy weight of responsibility in the process. "Dinner will be ready in an hour. You better get dressed. And don't be late again!"

 

When the girl has left the room, Lady Montagu adjusts the chair to her secretaire and picks up her writing paper and pen to phrase an appropriate reply to Major Hewlett.

After the formal greetings, she pauses with the pen in her hand and sighs.

She has not lied. She _did_ her very best.

In commemoration of her dead sister. It had been _horrible_ , the whole affair : a promising, young noble lady running off with the most unsuited subject of a doctor of _peasant origin_ , somewhere from the Scottish wilderness.

A _scandal_. And for what? Just to die in childbed only five years later, leaving the education of her only child to a man who obviously misused her as some kind of _apprentice_.

Whilst he ruined the country estate and wasted away all of his money at the taverns and gambling tables and whorehouses of London.

Before he drank himself to death at last, leaving a weird farewell note, which spoke of some kind of obscure family curse he would happily take to his grave.

The whole matter was as disgusting as pathetic. And too good a story not to go around in her gossippy circles, despite their efforts to cover everything up...

No wonder the girl had seemed so deranged when they first met her. Or at least, obviously neglected. It had been _weeks_ until they found out, she was even able to speak. And when she finally did, it had been anything but helpfull. Her house was the third place to accomodate her, after she had been passed around like some unsuitable, unwanted gift...

Lady Montagu sighs again.

She _had_ tried. To turn her into a young lady of their kind, to all appearance, at least.

But even when they had dressed her up like a shop window dummy, she would have stayed just as lifeless, mute, fake.

Had she been graceful and amiable, her unfortunate position might have touched her with something like an air of _romanticism_.

As it was, she was nothing but a constant embarassment to her respective hosts, with no hope for anything but lifelong dependance on their, reluctantly granted, charity.

Not on hers, though, as it now seems. Lady Montagu sends a silent prayer of thanks towards the unknown British major in the colonies for offering Marian- and herself- an escape from _that_.

 

Once the parlor door shuts behind her, Marian gathers her skirts and starts running to her room. Where she flops herself gracelessly on her bed and takes out the letter to read it over and over again, floating on a wave of thrilled anticipation.

 _America_!

She has never been there before, of course not, but from what she has heard and read about it, it must be a great place, a wild place, yet unformed and widely undiscovered, overflowing with _possibilities_.

 _The New World,_ indeed.

Where better to start all over, if not there?

As a matter of fact, she would have been just as happy to go anywhere else, as long as it was _as far away as possible_.

Those last month after her father's death had been the worst time of her life, and she had built up that thick, strong barrier around herself, in order to survive the seemingly endless horror of being pushed and shoved around from one cold- hearted residence to another, knowing she was nothing but a burden for their mother's relatives, at the very best.

Never before in those happy childhood years on their country estate she would have imagined, that being born into so-called high society would turn out to somewhat of a twofold punishment ; in fact, she had been living with the misconception that it meant nothing more or less than the freedom to do whatever she wanted.

They had always been short of money, true, with very few servants and she virtually wore the same dress every day, but why would she care?

There were little occasions to dress up, at her daily work in her herbal garden or accompanying her father on this doctor's visits. ( Occasionally at first, occasions becoming more frequent when her father's hands began to shake so much that in those last years, he had hardly been able to manage the easiest movements any longer. )

Their tenants had treated her much like one of their own kind, respectfully, yet friendly, and the fact that she wore skirts didn't matter much until it came to asking one of them to carry a heavy case for her.

But then, in London, at her first stay after the burial, she had soon learned that a "lady's" life seemed to be in fact very difficult- an endless array of tea parties, dinner parties and balls, churchgoing, embroidery circles, reading circles, dancing lessons- each with a complicated set of regulations, where the slightest infringement could mean immediate and permanent disqualification.

And Marian, although fortunately having no good name or reputation to lose, had suffered from foot-in-mouth disease right from the start.

Frantic with grief and guilt and desperation as she was, she still hadn't expected that things could get even worse.

She found herself wishing she had died with her father ever so often. Found herself almost hating him for having left her behind, to _this_.

But now, suddenly, out of the blue, there it was- the chance to _escape_.

No more stitching, no more dancing lessons, no more tea parties.

No more reading to her aunt every night, which seemed to be the only thing she has ever been able to do to her utmost contentment. Morally edifying works, of course, modern literature was too indecent, as were the Classics, and most of all, no _romances_.

"Your mother loved them, and what good did that do her?" ( Dorothy Fane never said anything about her sister without that specific afterthought. She was considered a ravishing beauty. She enjoyed country life. She was romantically minded. She loved ice cream. And what good did that do her?" )

The only black cloud on the horizon is the fact that the Colonies are at war with the British Empire, and this war seems to take much longer than anyone would have believed at its outbreak.

Marian is not so much troubled by the thought of war itself, it was horrible, most likely, as wars always were, but it is a vague, distant kind of horror.

The immediate horror is every day in this place, and the threatening thought that it might be like this for the rest of her life. But winter is coming, so it would probably take some time, until a somewhat safe passage could be guaranteed...

Horrified by the thought, that her aunt might change her mind about her leave, Marian is frantic to double her efforts to keep her content.

 

_But it isn't easy._

Only a day later, two of her cousins, Margery and Alice, ineffably silly yet vicious moppets, who are by ill luck spending two full months in the house, happen to come across her in the garden, where she crouches over a patch, digging for new herbs for a potion for poor, feverish Sally.

They had wasted no chance before to make fun of her cast-off clothing, her lack of appropriate manners and abilities in embroidery, dancing and all those stupid girlish things they fancied , and to find her there, grouting with mud-covered fingers like a farmwoman, makes them burst into silly giggling before they start talking about her, as if she wasn't even present.

"She's going to live in the woods, I reckon," Alice starts. "Woods full of savages who fight with tomahawks and collect the scalps of their enemies."

"Poor girl. She will end up a trophy on a dirty pagan's belt." Giggles.

Margery watches the herbs in her filthy hands with disgust.

"I believe, they still burn witches."

Marian sighs and can't help replying. "That was _a hundred years ago_."

The girls, obviously happy to have her attention, carefully move closer to her, as if she were some kind of exotic, yet obnoxious and vaguely dangerous animal- not too close, of course, to prevent to soil their shiny selfs with the muddy earth.

"Well, I imagine, they might begin again." Alice.

Marian looks up to them and smiles broadly. "Then maybe you two should come with me."

Slowly, she stands up and faces them wide- eyed, circling the small knife in her hands.

"Although I doubt very much the savages would want your ugly scalps."

And she walks past them, while they stand open- mouthed and frozen in shock, and just _accidently_ her bouquet of herbs happens to brush Margery's pristine white skirts, which makes them cry out in pain and desperation.

It is a pathetic act of compensation- Margery and Alice are widely considered as the prettiest and most promising aspirants on the marriage market- and she would have to listen to one of her aunt's humourless lecturings later and be banned from the garden for the rest of the week.

But it doesn't matter. Soon she will leave all this behind, and for good.

 

_March, 1779_

 

The day of her departure is a typical English day of march, all grey skies and rain and cold winds, but Marian stands at the bow of the ship for a long moment, and looks from the busy activities in the harbour of Southhampton ( nobody has come to wave her goodbye ) to the clouded sky above, focusing her mind on every happy moment she can remember in those past nineteen years and locking it deep inside a hidden chamber of her heart- and then she lets go of all the miserable rest.

_She has lost everything, yes, but didn't that mean she had nothing left to lose ?_

She is young, she is brave and smart ( well, at times ) and after all, life was what you made it and she is determined to make it better this time. Everything is possible. She turns around and never looks back.


	2. Finders, Keepers...

At first, everything seems to go according to plan.

The passage goes by rather smoothly and uncomplicated, no heavy storms threaten to sink their ship, no pirates try to capture or kill them and not even the slightest sign of naupathia shows on Marian, other than her poor maid, who spends most of the time in their cabin retching and vomitting and unwilling to be convinced that daylight and fresh sea air would do her better than the dubious potion of an apothecary ( promising to prevent from naupathia over melancholic hysteria to warts and female diseases of all kind ).

After only three weeks, their ship reaches the coast of New England and the first thing Marian sees are endless widths of pinetree forests behind a coastline of high rock bluffs and long curves of beach along a wild and hungry sea, all of it great in every dimension, greater than anything she has ever seen back home.

Her confidence doesn't even waver, when she discovers upon their arrival at Oyster Bay, that her uncle had not been able to catch her, but sent a carriage and two of his men instead, to accompany her to the nearby Setauket, where important matters of war obviously detained him.

The atmosphere in Oyster Bay is not much different from English harbour towns, except for the unmissable military presence in the streets. A subliminal tension fills the air, and Marian notices a few furtive, unfriendly glances from the locals at the sight of the newcomers and their guardians- they are at war, yes, but this has nothing to do with her, right?

They spend the night in a decent tavern, with lots of other redcoats in it, who are telling stories about marauding hordes of deserted rebels in the woods at dinner, and peek heavy with meaning at the two women and their companions.

"You shouldn't travel alone, Missy," says one of them in a warning tone as he leans fowards to her on the table. He is a heavy, ruddy-faced meatloaf of a musketeer who almost bursts out of his uniform while he hovels huge amounts of stew inside him and rinses every mouthful with gulps of the strong ( and surprisingly good ) ale they serve here.

"The roads are not safe and the woods- murdering bastards everywhere, they would have a bonny lass like you for breakfast."

"The lady is neither alone nor interested in your horror stories, " the taller and younger one of Hewlett's men interferes sharply. Awkwardly, he reaches out to pat her hand, before she can pull back. "Don't worry, Miss. With us by your side, you have nothing to fear."

She nods in her most lady-like way and gives him her brightest smile. "I'm sure of it, my dear-" she doesn't know his rank, so she ventures a guess. " Captain?"

The soldier blushes slightly when he informs her, no, he is only a lieutenant by now, but plans to move up in rank soon. Alas, since a former captain in their regiment had died under mysterious circumstances and his successor had been dishonourably discharged, the major is somewhat hesitant about promotions lately.

"Major Hewlett- my uncle, I mean -seems to be quite busy ?" she asks.

"Oh yes, Miss. After all, he is in charge of the whole area here, and there were quite a few very dangerous situations lately, but he braved them all, the great officer and leader he is. He is a superior "comme il faut" and a fine man, you will see. All his men are standing loyally by his side-" He pauses and clears his throat. " Or well, most of them. "

Quite a speech, Marian thinks, and certainly intended to be retold by her in her uncle's presence and she appreciates it with another smile.

" How very interesting." Which doesn't refer to his rather awkward flatteries but to the mention of the dangers her uncle has to face. Seems like it would be anything but boring here...( a thought which, in retrospect, would make her blush with embarressment at her naivity then. )

"The war may seem to be far away for you over there," the other soldier says quietly, and gives her a serious gaze her over his ale. He is older, about her father's age- or rather, about his age if he was still alive, she thinks with a sudden pang.

"But here- it is always present, every minute, and not only on the battlefield. You should not forget that. The enemy can be everywhere and _everyone_. And at times, you won't know it until he stabs you in the back."

"Quite true," the lieutenant mumbles and takes a gulp of ale. " But as I said before-"

"With you by my side I shall be perfectly safe." Marian finishes his sentence and he nods eagerly.

"Exactly." And she believes him.

And still believes it the next day on their way through the deep, dark woods in all their magical spring beauty.

Her snobs of relatives in London might well think, they've sent her here to be raped and murdered by some rebel marodeurs at the very first opportunity, so they'd be rid of her once and for all?

_Ha, not Lady Marian._

Leaning back in the slow moving carriage, she snuggles up in the soft fabrics of her cloak and listens sleepily to the birds' dawn songs-

And then the shots.

Followed by screams, like nothing she's heard before.

And when the doors of her carriage are pushed open and a blood- soaked hand roughly pulls the hood of her cloak from her head and she can only stare in horror at the bloodlust on a rough and filthy face, and the uniform belonging to it- ragged and covered with mud but still blue, unmistakably continental blue- she knows she couldn't run from her fate after all.

The curse had crossed the sea with her.

 

Meanwhile, less than a mile away, another party of troopers is on the hunt, unlucky as yet.

Twenty men about, in coats of green wool, their legs in white breeches under knee-high black boots. On their black hats an emblem of a white crescent.

The men are riding slowly and in gloomy silence.

In the lead, dressed in the same- usually meticulously clean and neat, but now somewhat messy from the latest amount of unfortunate events- uniform, his eyes staring straight forward and burning both from suppressed weariness and rage, a towering man just under thirty years of age.

 _Entering stage: John Graves Simcoe_ , captain of the British army in New England and commander of their ( ill-) famed irregulars known as the _Queen's Rangers_.

The men had been searching the area around Rocky Point for a suspected rebel spy under the alias of _Culper_ yesterday, when they were suddenly attacked by a band of continental bandits.

Who, in fact, couldn't have been more incompetent, and they eliminated most of them with no effort or casualties of their own, but when they were chasing the rest towards Oyster Bay, they were again ambushed by a lone sniper who killed two of his men.

To his surprise, the guy had not only turned out to be Robert Rogers, the former leader of the Queen's Rangers, but also the wanted Culper himself, and after the had defeated him in single combat and blinded him on one eye, he had somehow managed to escape with a dirty trick of some gunpowder explosion ( who killed another of his men ) and then vanished into thin air like a ghost and could not to be found ever since.

Simcoe knows, his men urgently need a rest, and the chance to capture Rogers in these woods, which he, having been a ranger for the longest time, is supposed to know inside out, are decreasing rapidly with every hour passing, but he cannot bring himself to give the command.

What a disastrous course of events. How could he have allowed himself to be outsmarted that way?

That rebel ambush had been no coincidence, of that he is sure, and also, _thanks to whom_.

Beneath his pale, now deeply- lined forehead, hatred is seething and he is indulging in detailed violent and murderous phantasies of vendetta.

 _Hewlett_.

So this ridiculous little man, this nit- picking cartoon of a most incapable commander, had not been pleased by having him court-martialed and taking the only woman he had ever cared for from him, no, now he has actually tried to _kill_ him.

He is still amazed at the slyness of this treacherous act, something he would have never thought the little paperpusher capable of.

 

Granted, of all the men he met during his almost ten years in the army now, there were only quite a few, who were actually good at fighting.

And even amongst those, most weren't even particularly prone to it. Deep inside, and despite their rough jokes and boasting, they were mostly frightened, or at least- deeply disgusted- by any actual needed application of force and glad when the battle was over and they could go back to more delightful pleasures such as drinking, gambling and whoring around- in case they could afford the latter.

For him, it has always been quite the other way around.

Not that he doesn't do all those things as well.

But it is the battle he actually lives for and for which he- reluctantly, yet inevitably- has to survive the time inbetween.

It had been much worse before he had his own command. When he was a mere lieutenant, he had been forced to spend endless nights in sordid taverns, along with the other low ranks, where he had studied them carefully in order to copy their behaviour, even tried to get drunk enough to actually understand the fun of it, but to no avail.

No matter how often he emptied his mug with cheap ale, it was impossible for him to relax, let alone enjoy their company, their drunken gossip and singing and whatever else there was of meaningless diversions. His jokes were always too bitingly sarcastic to make them feel really comfortable and they in return, took his apparent unease for arrogance( and weren't exactly wrong about it. )

So maybe it was the accumulation of all this, all those wasted nights in taverns, when he was dying of boredom and disgust until, with some luck, drunk happiness turned into hostility and it came to a fight, what had made it so easy for Anna Strong to walk into his life and invade all his senses with just one blink of her charcoal eye.

A more than welcome distraction- the beautiful wife of a patriot, who had been thankfully stupid enough to catapult himself out of range with a childish display of treason.

Alas, she had not wanted _his_ protection either.

At first, he had assumed understandable, modest restraint, that she, a mere inn-keeper's wife, would not consider herself good enough for him, and this thought had touched his heart.

But his attempt to read between the lines of human interaction had betrayed him once again. ( And he still isn't exactly sure when and where he could have misinterpreted her behaviour towards him so completely. )

But when she had given herself to that undersized cabbage farmer, while HE had been ready to die ( or well, rather to _kill_ ) to defend her virtue- and then later, favoured Hewlett over him- a major over a captain, _very well_ , but Hewlett had proven more than once he wasn't even able to protect his own tight-arse with a whole garrison full of armed men at his disposal.

The thought of Anna Strong no longer stings as it used to, there is only a faint echo now of the raging pain and desire her mere sight was able to cause in his chest for so long, while the flame of hatred towards his former superior still burns brightly. 

However, the memory is still painful- how she had spat at him he were not half the man Hewlett was, how she had shamelessly thrown herself at him only afterwards to make him save her precious major, how he had felt her shiver in disgust when he had-really gently- kissed her, and wiped her mouth when she thought he wouldn't see it - this sequence of unpleasant pictures has crossed his mind many times and still does. But he has forgiven her, he bears her no ill will- which is something that does not apply for her beloved major, _oh no, not at all._

But first of all, that traitor Robert Rogers is the immediate danger.

 

He has just decided to order the men to stop and build up a makeshift camp, when he suddenly hears the unmistakable sounds of a fight not far away from their position.

Full-throated, frenzied, murderous howls, the clashing of steel on steel, the shot of a musket and then the blood-curdling scream ( of a woman? )

Immediately, exhaustion and weariness are blown away and, yelling a command to his men, he rushes forward in the direction of the battle noise, eager to kill something, no matter what.

What he gets to see when he reaches the scene of action is a rather pathetic pack of rebel outlaws, the wretched remnants of a dispersed continental regiments or deserters, callous and savage from hunger, the horrors of the war and their inglorious attempt to escape from it.

He detects two British officers as well, who are fighting grimly yet hopelessly against the attackers- they are comparatively better armed but outnumbered many times over. One of them is already lying face down on the ground, unmoving, and the other one, bleeding from several wounds, just throws away this musket and tries to protect the door of a carriage with his sabre, while the rebel horde mercilessly stabs at him.

He tinks, the man's face looks vaguely familiar, but then the first rebel is at him and he gets carried away by the simple pleasure of fighting. His bajonet scythes them like corn, hacking and thrusting at jerking flesh and bone until nothing moves anymore. Every face beneath him crying in pain and agony looks like Hewlett's- a poor, compensatory act, certainly, which cannot slake his bloodlust, but it is a start.

After a short while, his men join him and the unequal battle is over as soon as it began.

He pauses, gasps for air and looks over to the carriage, where he assumes the cry of the woman came from.

In an unconscious attempt to restore a somewhat human appearance, he wipes his forearm over his forehead and face, leaving a bizarre warpaint of fresh blood on it, before he walks over to the carriage and opens its door.

Two women are crouching inside, one of them a black girl, a maid perhaps, and the other one must be her mistress regarding her fine, light muslin dress which is now torn around her neck and splattered with blood. She has her head down and the loose hair flowing over her shoulders is a tangled mess of light-blonde.

There is a brief stitch of disappointment in his chest when he realizes, it isn't her, it _cannot_ be her, of course not.

Then suddenly, and somewhat defiantly, she lifts her head, and he sees her eyes.

There is a long moment of complete silence.

He stares back at her.

Her eyes are wide and, understandably enough, frozen in terror.

They are of an iridescent light-grey, dotted with green and yellow and slightly slanted, which, in combination with her pale hair and skin, gives her a wild and exotic look.

He thinks, he has never seen eyes like this on a woman before- nor on anyone.

_Feline eyes._

_Witch eyes_.

He is captivated by this wild stare.

Apart from that, well-she is delicately built and quite young, eighteen at the very most.

He can also see now, that she clutches a dagger in both her hands in front of her chest. She has been fighting back, the brave girl, the blood on her dress is not her own.

He takes a perfect bow. " Captain John Graves Simcoe, at your service, madam. Are you alright? Are you injured ?"

The gentle, well-mannered sing-song tone of his high-pitched voice, contrasting so sharply with his ruffled and sanguinary looks, seems to soothe her, because she exhales heavily and clears her throat before she answers him in a hoarse and shaky voice.

"Yes. Thank you,Captain. I-we-" Her eyes fly over the scattered bodies of men around the carriage and she bites her lip when she sees the redcoats among them. "We've been- _ambushed_."

"By rebel outlaws, yes. Don't worry, they're all _dead_. "

He pauses. " Both of your attendants, too, I' m afraid."

She drops her gaze and nods.

"Excuse me madam, but I have to ask you this: why did you take the risk to cross this area with only two men to guard you? These woods are not safe these days, didn't you know? They are teeming with murderous vermin of all sorts. If me and my men had not been here by lucky chance..."

She swallows hard and looks up at him. "I know, Captain and as I said I am very grateful you were, but-"

She sighs and shivers slightly.

"It's just, me and Nettie here, we just arrived here last night- from England. My uncle, Major Hewlett of Setauket, was supposed to pick me up in Oyster Bay but I was told he was-indispensable, so we had to-"

She pauses, when she sees how his eyes suddenly blaze up like cold, blue flames.

Immediately he drops his gaze to hide it, slightly shakes his head and lifts his right hand to interrupt her.

"Please excuse me, madam, but, "

He looks back at her and there's nothing but polite curiosity in his gaze and voice now.

"Did you just say major _Hewlett_?"

And this angel sent to him from heaven confirms it, yes, her name be Marian Fane and Edmund Hewlett, the brother of her recently deceased father, had asked her to live with him in Setauket.

He can hardly believe his luck.

All his fatigue forgotten, his mind is spinning over with what has just been presented to him as a variety of possibilities for revenge.

Of cause he will do her no harm, the poor girl, after all she's been through. He is a gentleman, no matter what Anna Strong and her ridiculous halfling of a protector may argue.

Her uncle- _well_ \- he cannot see the faintest family resemblance, nothing about this exotic little thing reminds him of the stiff, fastidious man he hates so much.

How unfortunate for her to cross his pass just now, but this was the war- and he might console her afterwards, he's good at it. 

And this is just too brilliant. The best of the best.

So, how to do it now? He needs to buy time.

 

Setauket is just a day's ride away and it would be the simplest thing to do to escort her there, alas, he cannot do that, he still has to find a most dangerous outlaw and alleged rebel spy, right? And therefor he can neither, unfortunately, spare any of his men for this task.

And, of course he cannot allow them to take the risk of getting there all on their own, not with all those bandits and murderers out there.

They cannot make camp in these woods, but there is a detached farmhouse only a few miles from their position which they had just visited this morning to water their horses. It belongs to an old man, who could certainly be convinced to offer them a place to stay for the night.

So, and much to his regret, all he can offer for now is a safe place for the night, under his protection, and a quick messenger sent to Setauket immediately, to inform the Major of their situation, so he would be able to pick her up with his own escort.

This is what he- gently, yet insistently- tells her, in his best imitation of the voice of reason, leaving no doubt about his genuine concern and admitting no contradiction, for is this not his favourite game- to weave a web of lies and deceit to trap his victim in before annihilating it ?

She is not overly excited about it all, he can tell, but what can she do, she's in his grip and at his mercy and goodwill, not to mention the fact, that she must be clearly traumatized and not able to think straight- in other words, in the kind of condition he generally prefers other people in.

And so she agrees reluctantly, and he orders his men to grab their luggage and may the ladies please be good enough to stay in the safety of the carriage in the meantime.

And with this, he takes out his canteen, filled with madeira, and hands it to her and with another quick bow he closes the door of the carriage, waving at a nearby ranger to guard it.

 

He turns around and only now allows himself a small, diabolic smile, while a thrill of anticipation washes over him and burns in his veins like heady wine.

He inspects the scenery of battle around him and detects the two british soldiers, Hewletts' men indeed, as he realizes now, and one of them, though bleeding from several wounds and unable to move due to some broken ribs and a shattered leg, still alive.

The smile still lingering on his face, he walks over to the man who lies on the ground ahead and moans in pain.

He gets down on one knee and bends over him, so that he can see his face. The soldier opens his mouth, gasping and spitting blood, his voice bubbling and hoarse and shivering with fear and hatred.

_"Simcoe."_

"The same."

His sardonic smile widening, he pulls his dagger out of his boot and slides across his throat in one quick, smooth motion, then instantly jumps back to his feet to avoid the rushing stream of blood from the man's slit throat.

He carefully wipes his knife clean before stowing it back away in his boot and then he turns to discuss the details of his plan with his second in command.

 

Akinbode stoically tries to ignore the seething pain in his leg while he listens to the words of his commander.

When they had been fighting the ambushing rebels last night, the malicious tomahawk of that redskin had hit his calf, leaving a gaping wound he hadn't been able to tend to properly due to their wild chase afterwards.

It had burst open again while fighting these outlaws just now and he feels his blood dripping through the legs of his breeches down his boot, a constant, warm trickle.

However, he is standing straightfaced.

He is a Masai warrior, trained right from the cradle not only in warcraft, but also in enduring pain, and he has seen worse injuries than this one, starting with those of predators' attacks in his African homeland, through to bloody, salty lashings by diverse slave owners.

But those times are over and _for good_.

He is a Queen's Ranger now, part of the most efficient and most feared mercenary force of the British army and not only that, he has become a high-ranking officer and second in command in no time.

Captain Simcoe had soon registered his potential- and quite rightly so, as the young, dark-skinned man can claim without false modesty since he is _by far_ the best tracker and most fearless fighter among them.

The Captain had freed him from slavery and favoured him over older and more experienced men, and for this he owes him eternal gratitude and loyalty.

He respects and admires his superior, who is a fearless warrior and a clever strategian, but at the same time he has no illusions about his character.

Simcoe would sacrifice other people without hesitation or moral scruples when it came to attaining his goals- and those were of a violent nature more often than not.

However, he is no soulless monster either.

Akinbode has seen another version of him, too, one that loved music and ancient verse and even wrote his own poetry ( not that he has ever actually come to read any of it, God forbid! ), one that could be humorous, kind, even compassionate at times.

But then, no one was probably _completely evil_.

Akinbode had known most honorable men, who were supposed to be gentle husbands and loving fathers to their children, and still didn't make things like lashing their slaves brutally at the slightest provocation or raping young slave girls a matter of their conscience.

And when Simcoe certainly has his good sides, this may make him more human, but no less _dangerous._

Akinbode thinks of the one woman, of whom he knows that his captain had deeply and genuinely cared for, the wife of his former "owner" Selah Strong.

And how he himself had known from the start, what the captain had not ( or had not wanted to see ), that those feelings had _never, to no extend_ , been wanted, let alone reciprocated.

He had felt sorry for both of them, however, his loyalty belongs to his commander and so he'd had no scruples to assist him on his attempt to kill his rival in love.

But Hewlett had managed to escape and planned a counterblow- which reminds him again at the throbbing wound in his leg and this time he can't quite stop himself from slightly grimacing in pain.

So this little one is Hewlett's niece.

That is indeed a lucky coincidence, the only one in those unlucky last two days.

Still it makes him feel vaguely uncomfortable.

He hears Simcoe talk, his voice as calm and cultivated as ever, as if he was just sitting at some noble tea party, but the cold glitter in his eyes and the triumphant smile hiding in the corners of his mouth, unmask him.

He burns in repressed anticipation of his- undoubtedly blood-soaked vendetta.

A messenger is to be sent to Setauket post-haste, he tells him, to inform the major of his niece's "rescue" and set conditions for a prisoner's exchange: he would have to leave straightaway and he would have to come alone and surrender unconditionally, if he wanted to meet his niece again safe and sound.

It is clear that this would be no less than his own death warrant, but:

"What more could a man, as possessed with honour and decency as our dear major is, wish for, than to give his life for such a noble cause as to save an inncocent young lady?" the captain gleefully points out, before he adds: "At least his death could serve a purpose then, when his life did not."

His gaze hardens.

"That is, of course, after I have been pressing every detail about those rebels and that Culper bastard out of him."

Akinbode immediately volunteers to ride to Setauket, but Simcoe declines it.

"No. I will send Appleton. You need to get your injury tended to. I need you here and I need you to be fit for use. We will ride back to that cottage we passed this morning and stay there for the night. In the meantime, you' ll be in charge for the safety and wellbeing of our captives. I don't trust any of the other men with that. Now go."

 

The Captain turns and walks back to the clearing and proclaims in a loud voice ( which is supposed to be heard by the women in the carriage as well ):

"If anyone should feel tempted to lay hands on one of the ladies or molest them in any inappropriate way I will _lash him myself_."

Akinbode sighs and goes to help the others to ready the horses.

Some of the men ( most of them hate him and begrudge him his rank since he is only a former slave ) start telling lame jokes about him and the girl's maid, as if the fact that they are both black would be sufficient to let them feel attracted to each other.

Other than their commander, most of the rangers are confirmed racists and have bizarre ideas of the private life of "negros", especially about their sexual preferences and practices, which they share with him at every possible opportunity, in the attempt to make him angry enough to make a fatal mistake.

Akinbode swallows his anger as good as possible, but his injury has made him more touchy than usual and so he finally cuts them off and reminds them of the threatening words of their Captain and they, knowing their superior trusts in his second's words, fall silent and settle for sneering and hateful glances at him.

He walks over to the carriage and tells the women that they were going to a safe place to stay and that they would have to exit and ride with them- and while the blonde with the startling eyes politely thanks him and even gives him a- slightly intoxicated- smile, her maid looks him over with suspicious, narrowed eyes and ostentiously ignores his helping hand when she exits the carriage.

So much for the excessively "romantic" ideas of his comrades.

However, the maid would have to ride with him. She doesn't speak to him all the way, which is blessedly short, whilst the captain, of course, has the privilege to escort the blonde and the rest of them, their luggage.


	3. A Perfect Dinner

Not very ladylike, Marian slumps on the rather hard bed as soon as Nettie has closed the door and begins to open their heavy suitcases and check their belongings for completeness. Marian sighs and rubs her temples. She is feeling dizzy, both from the day's rush of events and Simcoe's strong madeira and a headache is imminent as well.

 _Only one day in the colonies and I have almost been killed._ She shudders.

The farmhouse is small, with a sparsely furnished hall and two rooms upstairs, one for them and the other one for the captain, while the rest of his men would have to find a place to rest in the hall or the barn, not that she cared.

Their room is tiny but clean, and by far better than a carriage or the ship's cabin, for that matter. As Simcoe had predicted, the man of the house had raised no objections to take them in, either because he was looking forward to have some company or because he was too scared to say no to a man like Simcoe, the latter, she assumes.

Marian turns to her maid, who is still rifling through their luggage and makes way too much noise for her taste.

"Oh stop that now. Do you think, the captain and his men have misappropriated our underwear?"

She giggles at the thought but Nettie frowns and mumbles " I wouldn't be surprised."

Marian sits up. " What's wrong with you? You were very rude to-Akinbode." she says, her tongue tripping over the exotic, strangely beautiful name.

" _Akeen-bodaay_ " Nettie mimics her, contemptuously stretching the syllables. "And what kind of name is that supposed to be? Not a good Christian name at any rate. And what sort of army would make someone like him an officer?" Her voice drips contempt of the high- born, which obviously includes her as a domestic servant, too, whereas a former slave is in her opinion at the very bottom of the ladder.

And there's more to come.

"And the rest? They're no better than him." she snaps. " That' no soldiers. That's mercenaries. Murderers. Their uniforms may look better than those of the others, but underneath it's just the same vermin-"

Marian rushes to her side and grabs her by the arm. "Why don't you speak up some more to make sure everyone can hear you?"

she hisses.

She has been thinking the same, of course. She has looked into the eyes of these men and found nothing honourable or even kind in there.

_Especially not in his._

But even if the others are vermin of the worst sort, as Nettie claims, their captain does not quite fit in. With his overdone politeness and gentleman's manners he is like a leopard leading a pack of hyenas. More elegant perhaps, but in the end, just as deadly.

They are still in danger. One more reason not to arouse attention.

"And their captain?" Nettie whispers now. "When you said your uncle's name he looked just like our old shepherd's mad dog right before he went for his jugular. And then he smiled." She shudders in disgust. "I tell you, Miss Marian, he knows your uncle and I swear he is _not his friend_."

Marian bites her lower lip and nods. " His last captain has been dishonourably discharged." she mumbles.

"What?"

"Lieutenant-" For a terrible moment, she thinks she can't remember the name of the man who lost his life trying to protect them. " Smithfield. Lieutenant Smithfield said that. When we were at the tavern in Oyster bay. What if that's him? Captain Simcoe?"

_But that cannot be. Why would he have a command then?_

Nettie gasps for air. She bends back over the suitcase, scrabbling and muttering to herself.

"What are you saying?"

Nettie turns around and her eyes are wide with fear but she purses her lips defiantly. "I said, we can't ask him no more, can we. He's dead. I've seen them dragging off the body. His throat was slit from ear to ear-"

"But-but the ambushers did that!"

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Enough." Marian lifts her hand to stop her. "We will talk about it later, I cannot think straight right now."

She sinks back on the bed and closes her eyes. No one can bear more than a certain extent of desperation and she has definitely had enough for a single day. While Nettie keeps unpacking their stuff, she slowly sinks into an exhausted doze. Just before her mind drifts off into confused, madeira-heavy dreams, she recalls once more the captain's face before her mind' s eye.

That pale, bloodstained brow with those ginger curls sticking to it.

Those big, bright, cold, icy- blue eyes.

And then, that _smile_. If a viper could smile, it would probably look like this...

He is exceptionally tall too, and impressive, likewise protective and threatening, and his body against her in the saddle had felt hot, like he was burning from some internal fire, some consuming fever. She knows him for only a few hours but she knows, she has never been more afraid of anyone. More so even than her uncertain, vaguely ominous situation should allow-

 

When Marian wakes up about two hours later, she is feeling slightly better. Maybe all this were nothing but figments of her imagination- vivid enough under normal circumstances, and all the more now that her nerves are all jangled by the traumatic experience.

The women stay inside their room for the rest of the afternoon and the night, disturbed only by a shy and very polite Akinbode, who brings them dinner ( some sort of rabbit stew with plenty of red wine in it, which isn't actually bad ) and fresh water to wash themselves.

The following night passes without incidents, and with a guard in front of their door- for their own safety, _of course_.

In the morning, Akinbode brings them breakfast, some pieces of hard bread and butter and even eggs, for which he has probably foraged the farmer's henhouse as Nettie assumes. She keeps treating Akinbode with the same indifferent, contemptuous rudeness, while Marian is always exceptionally friendly, and both seems to confuse him and make him feel uncomfortable, for he hurries away every time and avoids eye contact wherever he can.

Marian asks him, if the messenger has yet returned and he says no, but assures her, he should be back in the course of the day. Alas, the captain is unavaible at the moment, he says, still searching the area for remaining rebels and other dangerous persons, but he is in charge for their safety and there be no need to worry about anything.

She watches him as he speaks, trying to figure out if his obvious unease in their company is only caused by the fact that they are women, or if there's more to it, but she thinks he has a good, honest face and his concern and kindness seem to be real, not artificial as his captain's, who gave her the uncomfortable feeling that he might drop the mask of civility any minute and reveal the true face of the beast underneath.

She notices that Akinbode limps slightly and tightens his jaw and lips in pain whenever he rests on his left leg. And in a spontanous mixture of custom, boredom and the attempt to break his reservedness and perhaps find out something actually helpful, she asks him if he would allow her to have a look at his injury.

At that, Akinbode stares at her as if she had just suggested to chop his foot off.

He probably wonders if this crazy woman has not yet seen enough blood for a day or if she, like some of his brothers in arms, believes, he had six toes or horse's hoofs -but then, she has a black maid and most likely seen her feet before.

Marian watches the play of uneasy expressions on his face and adds quickly: "I'm sorry I didn't mean to embarrass you. My father was a doctor, you know, and I've been learning all about his treatment methods since I was a child. You don't have a surgeon with you, do you?"

He shakes his head. In fact, they _did_ have one, but he ended up as a human shield for their captain when Rogers had thrown that sort of home-made bomb at him. But he doesn't tell her that.

"I have his medicine with me." she insists. "Nettie, would you give me my doctor's case, please?"

Nettie looks far from pleased but reluctantly brings her the heavy leather case with her medical equipment in it, without which she wouldn't go anywhere.

Akinbode raises his hands in a dismissive gesture. "You're too kind, Miss, but I really couldn't-"

"Why not? I promise, I won't make it worse than it already is. It hurts quite badly, doesn't it? Nettie, would you please ask our friendly host for some fresh water?"

"But Miss Marian-"

"Go ahead!" When her maid has left, she turns back to her victim with an encouraging smile. "And now-if you'd please..."

Akinbode shakes his head again. "I really don't think the captain would permit-"

he tries.

"He doesn't have to know. He's not here, now, is he ? "

His grinding jaw tells her clearly that he is no longer a slave and certainly doesn't have to take commands by ridiculous, little ladies, but then he sighs and bends down to take off his boot and present her a- makeshift and not overly clean- dressing around his left calf.

Quickly, Marian wraps off the bloody bandages and, much to her utter surprise and disgust, finds a gross, bloody, sticky mass of- ?

"Squirrel brains." Akinbode verifies blankly. "Stops the bleeding and advances the healing. Or so I was told. An Indian, who used to be a ranger once, showed it to me."

"That's- " _ridiculous and disgusting_. "most interesting." she says with an unbelieving frown. " Did it help ?"

He drops his gaze. "No, not yet."

"Very well then." Nettie returns with a water bucket and puts it down in front of her, before she seats herself on the bed, crosses her arms and demonstratively faces the wall.

"Nettie can't stand to see blood." Marian whispers and a scornful snort from the bed answers her. " She's a little sensitive. Fearful, one might say. But you aren't, am I right?"

"Of course not."

She smiles. "I thought so."

While talking, she has taken a piece of fresh linen out of her box, soaked it generously with water and soap and begun to clean up the bloody mess on his calf to be able to take a closer look at the wound. It is a deep and ugly gash in the dark, muscular flesh of his calf, and she cleans and dabs it up gently with the rest of the Simcoe's good madeira, before she takes needle and thread and makes a few tight stitches. The Masai warrior keeps a straight face, although it must be quite painful. Afterwards, she applies a home-made balm from antiphlogistic herbs and replaces the bandages with clean, fresh linen. She loses herself completely in her work, which she has missed more than she would have been aware of, and when she's done, she proudly watches her skillful handiwork and tells her patient to change the bandages on a daily basis for at least another week :

"Since I won't be here to do it myself, of course." From the corner of her eye, she watches his expression and sees a brief expression of guilt and shame wash over his face, before he brings his features back under control.

"I mean, I'm sure my uncle will be here tomorrow," she adds lightly and he nods unhappily.

"Captain Simcoe is a man of honour, right?" she keeps chatting. " I heard, what he told his men, when we were sitting in the carriage."

Akinbode struggles visibly, before he finally replies : "That's true. He would never harm a woman. Nor allow his men to, for that matter."

He looks up to her earnestly. " But there's a war going on here. And at _war_ \- the most honourable men are often the first to die. After the _foolish and careless ones_ , that is."

She holds his gaze and nods. " I understand."

"Thank you madam. " He gets up stiff- legged, bows slightly and leaves the room without another word.

"And what exactly was that supposed to mean?" Nettie snorts, when Akinbode has left.

" I'm not sure." Marian stares blankly at the bloody water in the basin next to her.

"I think it was some kind of _warning._ " she whispers.

"Of what?"

"Not to trust in the honour of his captain. And not to do anything- _foolish_ , either."

The two women are looking at each other in despair.

"But Nettie, what _could_ we do ?"

 

In the afternoon, Appleton returns to the farmhouse and reports to Simcoe, that Hewlett received his message and- stonily, yet visibly shaken - agreed on the handover and would be ready to appear before his relentless judge and executioner by tomorrow noon.

At this, the captain, who spent the whole day searching for Rogers- _Culper_ but again found no trace of him, cheers up immediately.

So at least one of his missions will soon be accomplished.

Of both his enemies, he knows Rogers to be the far more dangerous one, but he feels no hate for his predesessor, who knows all the tricks in the book of war, even a certain kind of solidarity, as odd as it may seem in this situation.

They are cut from the same cloth, Rogers and himself. The veteran mercenary is just as grim and ruthless as he is- but he is old now, injured and alone- a discarded hound dog who cannot accept that his good times are long over. Sooner or later he would make a fatal mistake.

For Hewlett, however, he feels nothing but contempt. And the time for revenge is long overdue.

Spontaniously, he decides to celebrate the good news with a dinner for his "guests ", as genteel as the circumstances allow.

He sends for Akinbode to tell the ladies about his wishes and notes with contentment, that his second's injury seems to be a lot better already, because he almost moves with his usual feline grace and swiftness again. With astounishment he listens to his report about the healing arts of his captive, who obviously " has more to offer than just a pretty face" , as Akinbode puts it in a curious way.

He has not even considered her pretty in the first place.

Before his second leaves, he hesitates at the door and asks softly : "Will Hewlett really have to die?"

Simcoe stares at him in disbelief, thinking he must have misheard. But no, Akinbode is really serious about that. "I believe we agreed on the fact," he replies slowly. " that Helett deserves death _more than ever_ , since he has not only proven himself to be friends with traitors and rebels but also tried to _kill_ us ?"

Apparently uncomfortable, Akinbode drops his gaze, he looks confused. Perhaps his injuries were worse than he would have thought after all?

"Of course, Sir. I'm sorry. It's just- he is ruined anyway is he ? If he confesses-"

"- he will _hang_ , yes. But what if he somehow manages to cheat the gallows again? No, no, this time he won't get a second chance. And you know quite well I prefer to handle such matters face to face."

In truth, the correct procedure would be to inform Major André about the matter, so that he could take care of it himself. But-although he is convinced of Hewlett's treason, he can not prove it. Hewlett would of course deny everything, and who would André believe in the end? A captain who has almost been court martialed before and whose aversion against his former superior is well-known? Or rather the paragon of honesty and correctness as which Hewlett loves to present himself ? He hates the man, but even he would have never thought him capable of collaboration with the enemy-

The answer is perfectly obvious. He has no other choice.

"Just saying that it will be a considerable blow- and after all she's been through-" Akinbode mumbles.

"Really now, Akinbode." he cuts him off, indignantly . "These woods are _dangerous_ these days. There might be another rebel ambush, who knows?"

He frowns and squints. "Did you think I'd let her watch? What am I, a _monster_?"

When his second doesn't reply right away he waves him away, annoyed. "Tell her I'll be expecting her downstairs at eight. Her maid may help our host with the meal. Oh and I expect you to come too, of course. "

"Yes, Sir."

When Akinbode has left, he stands for a moment, frowning and wondering if his soft- hearted deputy would actually be able to do something so stupid as betraying him, but then he decisively sweeps this thought aside and looks for the old man to tell him his wishes for the dinner, and even asks for hot water for a- badly needed- bath.

Two hours later, he is freshly bathed and shaved, his uniform impeccable, from the pristine white collar of his shirt to his shiny black boots, his ginger mane ( more or less ) subdued, pomaded and slightly smelling of orange blossoms.

Two tables have been pushed together to a makeshift dining table, with a a clean, white cloth on it, the stew is steaming in the terrine and there are porcellain dishes and crystal glasses ( involuntary loans from a suspective rich wine merchant, whose home he came to examine earlier today ), candles and a whole lot of good, French red wine and liquors ( the same unhappy merchant ), only music is missing and he doesn't consider McInnis' bagpipes suitable for the event.

Miss Fane and her sullen- faced maid turn up at least fifteen minutes late- and despite the obvious fact that she has not spent half the effort on her appearance as he has. At least, she does not wear the blood- spattered dress any more, but has instead chosen a rather inappropriate dark one, almost black, as if she were to attend a funeral.

However, the dark of her low-cut robe contrasts pretty nicely to her fair skin, which is not as pale as he first thought, but has the warm, rosy glow of having spent more time outside in the sun than a lady usually should.

Her hair is still a mess, though, way too blonde and unwilling to be transformed into any kind of proper hairdo ( not unlike his own actually ), and her small, heart-shaped face looks locked and unhappy.

Not pretty, he finds his first impression confirmed. _Special,_ at best, and in a strange, fierce way that makes him feel more uneasy than anything.

Politely he pulls a chair for her and even considers to kiss her hand- she wears no gloves and something in her face tells him he shouldn't- but he does nevertheless and her hand beneath his lips is just as cold as her gaze, when he looks at her again.

_Those eyes!_

 

The evening doesn't start out well.

He really tries hard to make polite conversation, but his efforts are scarcely met with response, not even the happy news of her uncle's anticipated arrival the next day provoke the expected grateful reaction but just a brief, absent nod. But then, Miss Fane suddenly seems to make up her mind and asks him about his acquaintance with the major, and he gives her a brief ( and somewhat sugercoated ) version of his duty under him, which demands a great deal of his imagination, but he can at least express sincere regret over the fact that they had to part company so soon.

"When you were to command the Queen's Rangers?"

"Exactly." 

"Excuse me, but I was wondering," she looks up and shakes her head in perfectly innocent confusion. "I do not know much about military things, but these are not- _regular_ troops, are they?" 

She's up to something, he can tell. He sits back and looks at her while his fingers are drumming on the table.

"The Queen's Rangers are in fact a special force, for especially- delicate and dangerous tasks." he says. " But besides that, directly subordinated to the crown."

She nods her head. "Yes but, however, they are in fact- excuse me- _mercenaries_ , right?"

His eyes narrow and she quickly goes on:

"I just mean to say- what I am deeply interested in is- you know, like I said, I have absolutely no idea about chains of command and such things but- would you say, the command of a militia force is considered a _promotion_?"

He has no actual clue what she is up to with her questioning but he recognizes a subtle insult when he hears it, being a master of this art himself.

"Well, " he says slowly. " It's probably fair to say that- the command of a special unit as this one is certainly a task, not _every_ officer could cope with. "

She nods her head again, as if her presumptions had been certified.

In the silence that follows this strange interrogation, he watches his dinner guests eat.

The venison stew is in fact very good, but none of them seem to have been taught proper table manners.

Akinbode stabs at the meat with vigor and hastily brings it to his mouth, as if expecting someone to pull the plate away from him any moment- doubtlessly a relic of his years as a slave he will never quite be able to cast off. The sour looking maid eyes every spoonful with suspicion, like it might be foul or poisoned, and her mistress merely picks at her food in a way that would explain why she has so far been unable to put on some more- luxuriant female forms.

Whereas she is already at her third glass of wine and he can't help but feel offended, since he has spent so much effort on the preparation of the meal.

In his pathological manner to view things as being completely separated from each other, it doesn't occur to Simcoe that Miss Fane might not be able to enjoy dining with a man who has ominous, dark designs for her uncle. He is unable to see a contradiction between spending a pleasant evening with a woman on the one hand, and torturing and killing one of her family members on the other. And after all, she doesn't even _know_ about it.

And therefor, the hurt tone in his voice is totally honest, when he asks: "Don't you like the deer? I shot it myself."

She looks at him wide-eyed and asks : " Really? Was he a _rebel spy?_ "

He is seriously amazed. Was this supposed to be _funny_?

God save him from witty women. They belonged to the parlors and stages of this world, and he detests both from the heart.

But pray, if she really wants to have it that way.

He looks down on the piece of meat he had just cut carefully with forks and knives, then up to his second and asks:

"Akinbode, have we questioned him?"

Akinbode looks at him, startled. "Who, Sir?"

"The _deer._ " He raises his hand and answers his own question. "Of course we have."

Six pairs of eyes stare at him in silent anticipation. He sighs and shrugs slightly.

"But as it turned out, he was _French_."

He turns back to his plate, cuts elegantly a piece of meat, brings it to his mouth and chews approvingly before taking a sip of his wine.

"So we decided to boil him in Bordeaux."

There is an incredulous silence for a moment, but when he looks up, he can see that Miss Fane is hiding her smile behind both of her hands. Akinbode smiles broadly and even the grumpy maid cannot quite hold back a giggle.

Pleased with his success and hoping to turn the evening into a more cheerful mood, he turns to Marian: "By the way, I am most grateful you were kind enough to tend to Akinbode's injuries."

But no, both of them now look reproachfully, she at Akinbode, Akinbode at himself.

"The healing art is a noble work, " he tries to save the situation. " And without a doubt, even more so in times of war."

Irritated by her stare he can't help adding: "However a somewhat- _uncommon_ activity for a lady, I should think."

Her eyes flash at him from above her crystal glass. "Inappropriate, you mean?" she hisses.

He lifts his hands in a placatory gesture. "I mean uncommom. I didn't mean to-"

"Not at all," she interrupts him rather rudely. " _Not for me_."

She brings the glass to her mouth and empties it for the third time, and slowly a slight flush is beginning to creep from her cheeks down her- not all too generous- decoltée.

"My father was a doctor, I have learned all there is to know about medicine from him for as long as I live." she says superciliously.

So not just witty, but also vain. " Why, that must indeed be quite a lot of knowledge- considering your advanced age." he remarks dryly.

Upon her indignant snort, he bows his head in fake remorse and reaches for the decanter. "May I pour you some more, Miss Fane? Since you don't seem to appreciate the stew, I'm glad at least the wine finds your approval."

Now it is her maid, who snorts disapprovingly, clearly to her mistress' benefit, and just as if he were able to read her mind ( like father, like daughter ) he continues nonchalantly and with all the superiority of his ten years prior :

"You really must be in desperate need for something to forget about that horrible incident yesterday, and a healthy amount of wine can certainly be helpful with that- although, I doubt your dear father would have given his-medical consent..."

Now it is clearly rage that reddens her cheeks and her feline eyes are glinting at him when she spits back scornfully:

"How fortunate that you are _not_ my father."

He holds her gaze with wide, innocent eyes and smiles.

"Fortunate, indeed. For he is _dead_ , is he not?"

She stands up apruptly, making the glasses on the table tremble and clash and he feels a sudden touch of pity and shame crawling over him when he sees that her features have suddenly lost all colour.

"I beg your apologies, I meant no insult-"

"No, "she cuts him off, her voice hoarse and trembling. "you _did_ ."

She straightens herself and catches her breath. "But it is me who should apologize. I have indeed had- too much of that wine. You're right, the stress of the last days must have been too much. I am sorry, captain, but I'm very tired right now."

She waves at her maid and rushes away without any further word.

 

He sits back and exhales with a sigh. He is just about to say something lightly about the sensitive tempers of women in general and this one's in particular, when he notices, that Akinbode watches him with an expression of ill-concealed disapproval.

That just does it. He places the napkin on his dish and declares the dinner to be finished before his second can utter any more inappropriate comments concerning his behaviour towards their guest.

He leaves the table to be cleared by their host, telling the old man politely to help himself with the rest of the meal if he wants to, except for the wine, which he keeps for himself.

Then he leaves the house to give his men orders for the coming night.

Usually, he would take fastidious care that his men keep up with exercise and training inbetween two missions. His relentless rigor had probably not won their hearts for him at first, but more than one would be most thankful for it in hindsight. He had undertaken a dirty, unruly pack of mere bandits from Rogers, who were fighting with hatchets like savages, not an awful lot better than the rebels they were hunting. Now, even his superior, Major André in New York, has to pay his respect for what he'd made of them- and in a very short space of time. He doesn't have to win their hearts and minds, as Hewlett, the naive dreamer once put it. It is respect and obedience what he demands from them, and with that he has been satisfactorily successful by now. He sees little sense in soldiers having their fling in times of war, more than that, such carelessness could prove fatal. However, his Rangers are still a wild bunch, and there is not much that could possibly go wrong tonight, so he appoints two guard posts and leaves the rest to their usual needs ( which are few, and easy to please- drinks mostly when women are unavailable ) before he takes the remaining wine ( or what she's left of it anyway ) and retreats to his room.

Sipping his night cap, he tries to calm down and chase off the thoughts of the disastrous dinner, trying to think of more pleasant things -like Hewlett's inevitable and painful demise and, even more pleasant, if he should let her watch _after all_ , before he- still annoyed but determined not to waste any further thoughts about the matter- slips into his night clothes, places his pistol on the small bedside table and goes to sleep.


	4. The Killing Moon

For Marian, rest would not come easily that night.

After Nettie helped her undress and switch to her nightgown- accompanied with reproachful mutters from " _A lady doesn't get drunk_ " via " _A lady's behaviour is beyond reproach no matter the situation_ " through to " _A lady's weapon is her virtue_ "- she fell into the bed ( " _shut up, a lady wants to sleep now_ " ), but instead of tiring her, the unusual abuse of liquor keeps her wide awake and her head is spinning in endless circles about the unpleasant dinner with captain Simcoe.

Nettie is right, of course.

She _has_ made quite a spectacle of herself- and to no avail at all.

But who could blame her?

The man has very little sympathies for her, this much is certain- and it is a feeling, Marian heartily reciprocates- but to expect her to be stupid enough to enjoy this- ridiculous parody of a genteel dinner, like everything was perfectly fine-

It is also clear, that he bears indeed some kind of grudge against her uncle, but that's hardly her fault, right?

Given his pompous manner, he probably doesn't get along well with superiors in general.

And he certainly _has_ a violent temper.

Behind the facade of the well- mannered gentleman, he is virtually _brimming_ with rage, and it seems hard for him to hold it back for long, as the nervous, impatient drumming of his fingers shows- a tick, seemingly out of his control, whenever he has nothing else to keep his hands busy with.

He is _dangerous_ , no doubt about that, and to make him angry has not been a clever thing to do- it's just that-she has been so angry, _too_!

She still is, to tell the truth.

Marian rolls around on the bed, sighing.

 _Stop it_ , she tells herself firmly. There's no use in giving the matter any more thoughts. Waste of time. Tomorrow, her uncle would take her to her new home in Setauket and she wouldn't have to see this man ever again.

For what could he do, in the end? No matter, how much he might despise his former superior, they are both British officers and therefor on the same side in this conflict-

Marian tries to console herself as good as she can, but a small sting of doubt remains, and she is still anything but tired.

When she tosses and turns in her bed, another unwelcome feeling arises, which soon cannot be ignored any longer- the urgent need to pee. _Great._

And the pit latrine is- of course- outside the house.

Marian moans and looks over to Nettie, who is snorting peacefully in her own bed. She gets up quietly and shakily and prepares for the embarassing task to ask the guard in front of her door to lead her to the outhouse.

But when she opens the door, there's no one to be seen. Marian frowns in astounishment.

However, there's no time to waste. In her wine- heavy head she decides for some reason not to bother with shoes, instead she takes the rebel soldier's knife and hides it under her cape, before she carefully makes her way down the stairs.

A full moon has risen outside the window and dimly lights the dark hall, which is empty as well. The front door isn't locked.

She remembers the old man saying that there were no keys, for he had no need for privacy since his wife had died- and it would not help to keep those out who wanted to get in any way ( most likely in reference to the captain and his men).

The night air is fresh and clean and surprisingly chilly. She stands and peers out into the darkness.

Some of Simcoe's men are sitting around a camp fire near the stables, sharing a bottle of liquor of some sorts. She can hear them chat and laugh drunkenly in the distance. But fortunately,her designation leads into the opposite direction, behind the house. Cautiously, she moves along the walls and luck staying with her, meets no one. The latrines seem to be fairly clean and she can't see too much of it any way. She closes the door behind her.

The feeling of relief doesn't last too long though, because just as soon as she's done and ready to hurry back to the house, she suddenly hears voices coming her way.

Frozen in shock she realizes, that it is two of the rangers. And they are not walking by but obviously making a stop just next to her. From what she can hear, they have abandoned their posts to get some more drinks.

 _Special units, indeed_.

Except for Akinbode and of course, unpleasant captain Simcoe, she has not seen enough of the other rangers to seperate one from another, let alone by their voices, not that wished to deepen acquaintance with any of them.

But oh well, as unfortunate as it is, she is hardly committing a _crime_ here. She isn't allowed to be outside alone, but is it her fault, they aren't doing their jobs?

She has just decided to step outside ( before one of them might want to take a piss ) when she suddenly hears her name. They are talking about _her_.

Her hand on the doorknob freezes and the other one grabs for the knife in her cloak. She holds her breath and listens carefully to their muffled, drunken chatting.

One of them seems to be younger, according to his voice, it might be the blond guy who was ordered to guard their door, but she can't tell for sure.

"Don't give a shit about the guy." he says, before he takes another gulp from the bottle. " Gets what he deserves. Just saying it's a shame about the girl ."

"But she will never know. It will look like just another ambush. Rebel bastards everywhere." the second voice replies in a mocking tone.

"Yeah, such a pity for our good oyster major. And the little girl will be all alone then." the young voice says in fake remorse.

"Well, she won't have a cry on your shoulder."

"And why not? I like them when they're crying."

"Yeah, but with you they're only ever crying afterwards."

Marian hears muffled fighting sounds and more laughter. "Anyway, the captain will want to keep her for himself." Regretfully.

"But maybe we can have our game with her later on."

"You know what he thinks about _that_. Perfect gentleman when it comes to women." ( Even more regretful. )

"Not sure about that one tho. Seen the look in his eyes earlier? We know what _that_ means, don't we."

"Yeah. " They fall silent, probably thinking of their captain's facial expressions and their -undoubtedly unpleasant- meanings.

Suddenly one of the men at the campfire calls out to them and they finally get up and start walking towards the stables.

Marian slowly releases the breath she's been holding. Her legs shake violently and her heart pounds like a war drum in her chest. She sinks against the wooden wall, trembling in incredulous horror.

Her first impulse is to start running. Run into the forest and hide there.

She has no idea where to run and it is pretty cold, too, but whatever awaits her there can't be worse than _this_.

Will she manage to escape? Setauket can't be far away, just half a day's ride. But she has no orientation out here, in the middle of the night on top of that. She wouldn't even know in which direction to run.

Then she thinks of Nettie, sleeping unaware in their room. What would these monsters do to her when they found her gone? What would they do to _herself_ when they - pretty inevitably- caught her, having horses and knowing the area ?

She forces herself to hold back a violent sob burning in her throat. Hopeless. She can't even think straight in her panicking and still wine- heavy head. She closes her eyes and tries to catch her breath.

It is only now that she realizes, her cold hands still clutch the handle of the rebel's knife. Suddenly she feels very calm. There is only one thing left for her to do now.

 _Kill him_.

Here and now, while he is still asleep. None of his men are inside the house right now. She has but this one chance.

Slowly she makes her way back to the house. Her feet are cold and sore but she moves soft-footed like a ghost.

 _I can do it. I have used this knife before._ Admittedly, stabbing at the rebel in blind fury for self-defence was not the same as cold blooded murder...but if anyone ever deserved to die, it was certainly Captain Simcoe.

What a perfidious, hideous plan, to lure her uncle here to _kill_ him. What kind of monster would do that?

 _I hate him_.

She thinks of how she would thrust the knife deep and hard into the soft flesh beneath his arrogant chin. Imagines his blood streaming over her hands, while he would stare at her wide-eyed, the cold, blue fire flare one last time and then die.

It would be her death, too, of course. But what was good enough for her ancient heroines must be good enough for herself now. A heroic sacrifice to kill a tyrant and save the innocent. What could be better than that?

Not that she _wants_ to die. In fact, she has perhaps never felt more alive than at this very moment. (And she is young and drunk enough not to fear something she can't really imagine any way.)

 

Marian walks all the way upstairs towards his room across the hallway. From what she can see and hear ( nothing ), he seems to be sleeping. _If he is in there at all._

She fights back a sudden surge of panic, when she imagines him returning and finding her standing in his room, dagger in hand.

However, there's only one way to find out .

She draws a deep and quivering breath before she opens the door, slowly and very carefully.

Inside the room, it is perfectly still.

She holds her breath and stands at the door for a moment, half anticipating him to jump at her from the shadows, like the predator he is.

But nothing happens and she can see the shades of the room more clearly now in the moonlight. The bed across the floor by the window. A tall shape in it, half wrapped up in a blanket. She closes the door cautiously and moves forward.

His head rests on a pale forearm, facing the wall, the tousled ginger crown now of a darker ruby in the moonlight. And right there, beneath his ear, exposed and vulnerable, the perfect sensitive spot to thrust her knife in.

Right next to him, on the bedside table, she can see his gun now, too. It would be so much easier to use this- if only she knew, how. Her father, and some of his tenants used to have guns, of course, but shooting had not been part of her education, however uncommon.

No, too dangerous. And even more to leave it there.

Slowly, silently, like in a trance, she moves towards the bed until she is standing right next to the figure in it, and looks down at his profile in the twilight. Asleep, with his eyes closed below light- pink lids, in absence of the intensity and fierceness of his icy- blue stare, his face looks younger and more vulnerable, not evil at all. His chapped, yet delicately curved lips are curled into a tiny smile of some pleasant dream.

Of _murder_.

Slowly she reaches out her left hand and feels for the pistol on the bedside table. Her right hand clutches the knife, aiming for the invisible pulsating artery below his ear.

But she has waited too long.

Just at this very moment-  and like some kind of unfortunate warning-  the solitary nightsong of a wolf rises from the woods outside the window, a sustained howl, followed by several more, joining the worshipping choire to the moon.

Simcoe frowns and murmurs something in his sleep, then he suddenly turns around in his bed and her hand flinches and the gun slips from her fingers and hits the floor with a painful loud clank.

His eyes flash open and fixate on her and she, frozen in shock and unable to move, stares back at him.

Then a sudden movement, when he tries to grab the pistol, realizing it is not in its place, he makes as if to get up and finally she wakes from her paralysis, falls on her knees onto the bed beside him, grabs the knife with both her hands and presses it to his throat beneath his chin, hard enough to make a single drop of blood, black in the moonlight, spring from his milky skin and trickle down his neck on his chest underneath his night shirt.

"Don't, " she hisses. " _move_ !"

Simcoe raises his brows and slowly raises his forearms, palms outstretched. He twists his mouth into a crooked little smile and his voice is hoarse with sleep, but in other ways as cool and calm as usual, when he says : "Miss _Fane_... this is certainly a rather inappropriate time for a visit, however...if you feel such a burning desire for my company, you really don't have to aim a knife at me."

She presses her lips together and doesn't even bother answering. He stares at her with bright, dilated eyes and whispers: "So? What now? Are you going to kill me? _Go ahead_."

Marian catches her breath. " _You_ plan to kill my uncle. Don't try to deny it, I heard your men talk about it."

"Ah." He closes his eyes, sighs and opens them again. "So I am to confess first." He holds her gaze. "You're right." he says flatly. " Hewlett won't leave this place alive."

To hear the truth in his own words, in that plain tone, as if he were talking everyday business, makes it all the more horrible. Marian feels desperate tears burn in her throat and clutches the knife harder. So it is true.

"But...but _why_?" she whispers.

Simcoe watches her and thinks for a long moment, before he answers her question. "The major and I had some... _disagreements_ , when he used to be my superior." he explains. " I believed him to be incapable of his task as a commanding officer in Setauket. And as it turned out, I was right. Because of him, the rebels who attacked the town could escape unscathed. Which is hardly surprising if he was collaberating with them even then...Instead of fighting the enemy he wanted to get _me_ court martialed...because I dared to... _criticize_ his desastrous acting in the case. I lost my command and was demoted to work in a _writing room_."

He bites the inside of his cheek and looks down. "And while I was away...he went to the woman I loved... and _took her for himself_."

He pauses, before he quickly finishes his story. " After my return he sent me on a mission to find a rebel spy. Instead, my men and I were ambushed by a bunch of rebel soldiers. They knew exactly where to find us, because they were sent out by _him_ to kill me, no mistake about that. But they failed. I _won't_."

Marian swallows. "An intriguing story." she says at last.

In fact, she is surprised he told her so much. If that was true, it would explain his mortal hatred towards her uncle, but it couldn't be true, of course not, or at least- not all of it.

"But somehow I believe, my uncle would tell a different one." she adds a little uncertain. Simcoe looks back at her. "Of course he would," he says sharply. "You, and his superiors in New York as well. But I won't let that happen. He had his chance, now I intend to take _mine_."

His gaze softens a touch. "But be that as it may, none of this is your fault." he says softly." I will not deny, that our encounter has been... _lucky_ for me. But I never had- or _have_ \- the intention to hurt you. Nor would my men ever dare to harm you. I regret to cause you trouble, but once my business is done, I promise, you are free to go wherever you wish- unmolested."

He raises a pale brow. " Something I cannot guarantee in case you do _this_ , that is."

Marian feels her lips twist into a bitter smile. Where could she go, when her uncle was dead ? She can't even hope to hold Simcoe accountable for his wicked deed. Who would believe her over him and twenty men to comfirm his words? There's no other way out of this.

What is clear, however, is if she _wants_ to do this, she has to do it soon. Her hands, clutched across the knife, are beginning to feel numb and her forearms are cramping.

"I'll do it." she whispers, more to convince herself than anyone else, because the situation feels more unreal and ridiculous by the moment.

To sit at the bedside of a man, in her nightgown, in the middle of the night, just a breath away from the warm body of the man inside, close enough to make out the line of hair on his chest, slightly darker than those auburn curls on his head, with their delicate odour of orange flowers, mingled with the wine on his breath and his own, significant, masculine, tangy scent, confusing her, scaring her.

"I'm not scared of the consequences." she says.

He nods ( or tries to, knife at his chin and all ). "Have you ever killed a man?" he asks her softly, dreamily almost, looking at her fixedly. "Because I have killed many. It takes courage, yes. But you also have to be quick... and... _determined_."

Next thing she knows is that she is no longer kneeling next to him, but feels herself lifted up in a heartbeat and smashed down roughly on her back on the other side of the bed, all of it happening in one smooth motion, so fast she doesn't even have the time to cry out in surprise. He rolls himself onto her, holding her down with his full weight upon her, and her knife joins the pistol under the bed with a clattering noise when her arms are torn over her head and her wrists knocked painfully against the metallic bedframe.

She feels hot tears of pain and humiliation burn in her eyes when she realizes, that he could have done this any time sooner, and with no effort at all- but apparantly he enjoyed their little bedside talk.

Not anymore, though. The weight of his body heavy on her, she is unable to move, let alone fight. The feeling of defeat is oddly consoling.

 _It's over_.

He smiles down on her and his tangled curls and warm breath brush her face when he whispers against her ear: " Enough talk."

Marian could not talk any way, she finds it even hard to breathe whith his body on her for one thing and for another, his mouth on hers now, too. For, of course, at this point in the course of events, the situation inevitably calls for a kiss- and so he kisses her.

Now, it is not the case that Marian has been kissed much before, but judged by prior experience with the boys back home, romantic scenes from books she wasn't supposed to read or even her own vague ideas about how kisses _should_ feel like...in a word, whatever she might have expected, it is not _this_.

There is nothing playful in this kiss, nothing romantic, let alone tender. It is all capture, occupation, submission. The kiss of a soldier after a victorious battle, still tasting of blood and death, yet hungry for life. A kiss that says, I possess you and I will take you, even against your will, even against my _own_ , just because this is the natural order of things.

And when she opens her mouth to his demanding lips, tongue, teeth, it is only to say _no_ , but the word never comes out.

His mouth tastes of wine, bitter, sweet and intoxicative. He kisses her hungrily, greedily, and in fact with more ferventness than skill, almost like this was just as new to him as it is to her.

He releases her wrists from his death grip and his hands are all over her body now, her breasts, her thighs, rough, possessive, running fevery shivers all through her, hot, cold, vertiginous and not at all entirely pleasant, but she finds herself pushing and swaying against him for dear life. Her body seems to liquify and fall into pieces, dissolve into a wet, seething flood and then being reassembled, reborn, while she is desperately clinging to the man who caused the flood to save her from drowning.

The thin fabrics of their nightgowns between them are way too much.

Does he feel _that_ too? Marian opens her eyes to look at him and he seems to be as astonished by the fierceness of her reaction as she is, for he pulls his mouth off hers, breathing hard, and rests on his elbows to look down upon her face somewhat warily, as if expecting a dirty trick.

It almost makes her laugh, but then, suddenly, the camp outside comes to life and she can hear the unmistakable sounds of a fight and his eyes narrow and he glares at her, as if this was all _her_ fault, which really beats everything.

She stares back, confused and angry, and tries to struggle herself free, but he grabs her wrists and holds her down and tells her to stay there, his voice a cold threat.

Then he is up and in his clothes in an instant, not even bothering for his gun, grabbing his bayonet and rushing out the door. _End of scene._

 

Marian stays outstretched on the bed for a few seconds. She feels numb, as limp and lifeless as a rag doll, a carelessly discarded toy.

Outside there are gunshots, men screaming and she can hear the yell of a command ( his voice ), cursing, steel clinking on steel. She shakes her head in disbelief. Could this night possibly get any _worse_?

It's no use, she has to get up. But can she? Her heart is pounding, her legs are numb and shaky. There's a strange, dull ache in her belly. It is as if she had forgotten how to move.

She finally forces her body to get out of the bed and then she is on her knees, feeling for her knife under it. The pistol is lying right next to it. Good. She takes that one, too. She walks to the window and peers out into the semi- darkness.

There is a fierce battle going on in front of the house. The rangers, obviously caught off guard in their sleep or wine- heavy night watch, are fighting back their ambushers. She can't make out any uniforms. Another brigand band? What the hell is wrong with this godforsaken place?

Suddenly, she thinks she hears boots rumble up the stairs. Are they inside the house yet? A cold terror grips her to the marrow. _Nettie_!

She rushes out of Simcoes room and back to her own.

The door stands wide open. She hears Nettie scream. Her maid is sitting up on her bed, the white of her nightgown and her dilated eyes shining eeriely in the moonlight.

The man who stands in front of her turns around and looks at her now. He is medium-sized and quite scruffy looking, wears something like a long, dark leather cloak and an unkempt beard covers most of his face. She has never seen him before.

Marian holds up the heavy gun and points it at him. He looks her over and the corners of his mouth slowly curl into a grin. "Miss Fane, I assume ?"

She stares at him, open-mouthed. He is carrying a gun as well, which he points down now and his other hand touches his hat to her, when he goes on: "Caleb Brewster, at your service, m'am. Your uncle, Major Hewlett, sends me to bring you home safely. And we better hurry."

She is unable to speak, it's just too much. "M'am," he repeats, his voice calm and sympathetic. He has warm, brown eyes and a friendly, round and rather young face beneath the unkempt beard. "we need to get out of here, now. My men cannot keep those bastards at bay forever. I've got horses waiting for you in the woods and I promise, I will get you to Setauket safe and sound but we need to leave right _now_!"

"Yes... " she is finally able to move. "No, no" he says, when he sees her looking for her dress and her doctor's case. "We don't have time for that. But you should keep the gun. However, I'd suggest to unlock it, too."

He winks at her, then walks to the door and peers out. "Let's go now. Stay right behind me. Once we're outside, be prepared to start running. No worries, we'll be alright."

He shoves the women out of the door and they leave the house.

Outside, the fighting still continues. She looks around quickly, but doesn't find the one she's looking for. "Now... _run_!" Brewster commands and they run after him, away from the battle and towards the sheltering trees. She cannot believe they will actually make it. Expects a musket's bullet or the blade of a bayonet in her back every second.

Suddenly Nettie cries out, but she just stumbled over a root and Brewster quickly grabs her arm and helps her up and pushes her forward, and they reach a small clearing, where one of his men is waiting with two horses and the man helps Nettie mount his horse and the bearded guy does the same for her and then they rush away at full gallop, into the trees, into the night.


	5. A Close Enemy

They make it through the woods to the street to Setauket, unimpeded.

A few miles down the street, with no pursuers to be seen behind them, Caleb steadies his horse and lets it go at an easy trot.

He can only hope this means Simcoe is dead, but surely, he cannot be that lucky. Simcoe instead, seems to have the luck of a devil.

To think that they'd had him on the brink of death before, back in those days, in that barn, tied up and beaten up, almost dying from a bad gunshot wound, bathed in blood... and still he had the nerve to make fun of them... and just when they were about to finish him once and for all, that stupid Scott had happened to walk in and interfere...and Simcoe got away with it. No, that guy must be the devil himself or at least be in league with him.

Still- the memories of those golden hours are haunting him. He has not been that lucky with Simcoe ever since.

The lady - if that's what she is- in the saddle in front of him, has not said a word since their departure, not even complained about the breakneck speed of their wild ride, she's still in shock, obviously. He tells her that they could ride at an easy pace now, that it wouldn't be long before they would reach Setauket and she looks at him and nods, an absent look in her tired eyes.

He is bone-weary himself and not in a chatty mood at all, so he doesn't mind her silence. What is weighing heavily on his mind, he couldn't share with her any way. He is furious beyond words and still bewildered, that Abe made him sign up for the second suicide mission in only three days time, going for Simcoe and his Queen's Rangers.

And what for? Just to make sure, their oh-so-precious _master spy_ won't be exposed, to get the talented Mr Culper out of the mess he gets himself in- on a way too regular basis- again. Him and his father, this pompous, self-rightous son of a bitch, so loyal a follower of the crown that he would turn in his very-and only- son to them, his black soul be damned. And so that is why he, Caleb Brewster, special envoy of George Washington, had been called to sort out the mess again.

But this time, everything had gone terribly wrong. Abe and Hewlett had agreed on a truce, according to the common law of "my enemy's enemy is my friend", that Hewlett would let him go unharmed, if he managed to get rid of Simcoe for him. But the ambush at Rocky Point had been a failure, he had to admit that, his men had been undisciplined and unruly and the whole thing had turned into a massacre, which he had survived just barely- and only with the help of Robert Rogers, who was pursuing his own agenda as usual. Whereupon, just the other day, he had received an urgent message, saying that Simcoe had somehow managed to capture Hewlett's niece on her way to Setauket and planned to kill the major in exchange for his hostage. Which, in and off itself, would have been the _perfect_ solution to all their problems, but _no_ , there had been strong opposition by Miss Anna Strong, the "Signal" of the Culper Ring and obviously romantically involved with Hewlett as of lately ( he can't keep track of it any more, it had been Abe until recently and somewhere in Washington's camp there was a husband, too, but what does he know, _he_ doesn't have the time to screw around, _he_ actually has a job to do. ) So no, under no circumstances, Hewlett was to be hurt, so it is up to him again to save Maid Marian and, if possible, please be good enough to -incidentally -kill their all time favorite villain inthe process? Why not win the whole fucking war as well, just in passing? 

Did they all think his men grew on trees? He had just lost his whole unit in their last disastrous encounter but they expected him to get a new army up in only a day's time. 

This really is the last time, he swears silently to himself. Sometimes he wishes, it was just him and his whaleboat again, as it used to be before he sold his soul to the revolutionary cause. His life had been _fun_. A little smuggling right under their occupants' nose, happy letting the bottle go round with fellow privateers, no orders or authorities to follow but his own. Now, it feels like he is hiding in some kind of undergrowth half the time- and the other half on the run, and always from the very man, he is actually out to kill- Simcoe.

And where's the gratitude for all this? His rescued captive is not very grateful, that much is certain. Not only does she not talk to him or hardly looks at him at all, she is also ostentatiously keeping as much distance as possible in the saddle in front of him, as if he would smell bad- and perhaps he _does_ , but my apologies, mylady, but he just didn't have the time for a bath inbetween two ambushes at the Queen's Rangers. Besides that, she doesn't look much like a "lady" either, in that cape and that nightgown, hair down and all, not that he could make comparisons.

He doesn't know many ladies, or many _women_ , for that matter. He had not been in a hurry to get married and start a family before the war, let alone after the war broke out, and if he's perfectly honest, he enjoys the informal atmosphere amongst men at the camp, so he's kind of glad about that. It's okay to risk one's own life al the time- one might even say he enjoys it- but family is something completely diffent. You can see how things are going with Mr Culper...

Poor thing, he thinks, she doesn't even know anything about all this. In fact, she's quite pretty, despite her disheveled and apparently traumatized state. After a while he realizes, she is leaning against him now and an examining view confirms it: she has fallen asleep and doesn't even wake up, when he hears the clip-clop of hoofs behind him and his remaining men rejoin him, cut in half, in bad shape and sour mood, and he wonders briefly if he would be able to find any more volunteers next time. He turns to the first man in line with a questioning gaze and he looks down and shakes his head. He spits on the ground and curses between clenched teeth. "Bollocks."

So best he can hope for is, Major Hewlett will be grateful enough for the safe return of his precious little niece to forget he had ever known a cabbage farmer with the strange alias of "Culper".

It is still dark when they reach Setauket and he leaves his men to stay in a deserted cabin nearby, while he makes his way to Whitehall. The manor house is the current residence of the British commander of Setauket, a beautiful colonial building, a peaceful and quiet place, surrounded by fields and the woods behind, just outside the town. Caleb dismounts and helps the barely awake girl to unhorse before he leads her to the big entrance portal.

The major, in a dressing gown but apart from that as neat and tidy looking as always, opens the door himself and, his eyes burning with tears, looks at the dizzy girl, before he catches her in his arms. He leads them to the parlor, where Anna, the non-official lady of the house, who had been sitting by the fireplace, jumps to her feet and clutches him in a tight embrace. "Thank you, Caleb" she whispers in his ear. Hewlett introduces Anna to his niece as "my lady" and afterwards, they both begin to fire questions at him, softly but fiercely, and just when he has to answer the question about Simcoe's demise with a "no", the hitherto apathetic girl suddenly breaks down and starts to sob uncontrollably, whereupon a door upstairs cracks open and a very angry looking Magistrate Woodhull in his nightshirt and nightcap appears and demands to know what's going on and, recognizing Caleb, what the hell _he_ was doing here, and Hewlett quickly asks his "lady" to bring Marian and her maid to their bedrooms before he, quite fretfully, addresses the elder man : "Richard, please, go back to bed, we will talk about everything tomorrow!"

 

Marian dreams.

She is back in her old house in England, but it seems to be much bigger than it really was, and she is desperately hurrying through endless hallways to find the room where she left her doctor's case with the medicine, her father needs so urgently. The house is dark, empty and eerie, and her heels are echoing loudly on the tiles when she runs from one door to the next, but behind them there's always just another hallway, long and dark, like she was driving circles in a maze. Suddenly she thinks, she can hear some kind of quiet music behind one of the doors and she opens it and- stands in the middle of a large, brightly illuminated ballroom, full of magnificantly dressed ladies and gentlemen, apparently having a lavish celebration. ( At our home? While my father is _dying_? ) The dancing, laughing and chatting party guests fall silent and turn to her unisono, before they return to their pleasures. All of them wear masks.

Next to one of the tables which are fully loaded with exquisite delicacies they surely could never, ever afford, stands a single man, taller than everyone in the room, but other than them, dressed in modest grey and black, from his knee high boots to the collar of his elegant silken jacket, only his wig is of a bright, lurid red and oddly unfitting his otherwise impeccable, elegant appearance. He too, is masked, still she thinks, she should know him. Knows, she should _fear_ him. She tries to pass him by, but he grabs her wrist and looks at her and his eyes behind the mask are _very blue_. "Just one dance." he says softly. She opens her mouth to decline but he has already drawn her to the dancefloor and clutches her with large, strong hands and they start to dance a kind of Volta and he keeps spinning her around in increasingly rapid circles. The other guests have made a circle around them, applauding them, and with every rotation, and to her great embarrassment, her dress- obviously not made for this kind of artistic dance- falls apart piece by piece, the fabrics unfolding and unwrapping and falling to the floor around them, until, in a last final turn, they come to a stop and a shocked murmur goes through the crowd and he smiles at her and she stares down and sees, she is completely naked.

The celebrating guests, frozen in terrified silence, drop their masks one by one and she suddenly recognizes most of the faces as the ones from her mother's most noble kinship. Then suddenly one of them-Margery? points a finger at her with a silly, girlish little giggle and then the others join in and burst into derisive laughter, shaking and convulsing with brimming mirth at her painful misfortune. She stares at the crowd in horror and suddenly her father is there, too, standing among them as still and solemn as a statue, his cheeks hollowed, his eyes doleful. "I should have told you," he says sadly. And she feels her knees give in and the tall man lifts her up in one sweeping movement and carries her out of the room, and she fights him, drums her fists against his chest and tries to look back over his shoulder and hold her father's gaze, but he strides out fast into the darkness and her fathers' face diminishes and disappears in the distance and she cries out for him, she must speak to him, must _know_... "

 

"Shhhh...all's well."

Slowly, Marian comes back to the real- and still dark- world. By the light of a candle, placed on her bedside table, she can see the white, concerned looking face of a woman hovering above her. Dark wisps unter a white, lace-trimmed bonnet. Dark eyes, big, round, compassionate. It is the woman at her uncle's side, earlier in the parlor. ("My dear, allow me to introduce Mrs Anna Strong, my... lady.") And another voice, with much less warmth in it, echoes in her head: " and then, he took the woman I loved away from me." So this is her.

Marian swallows. "It is nothing, forgive me. Just a bad dream, that's all." She tries to smile, but it comes out as a whiny grimace. " Seems my whole life's been one lately." "I'm so sorry." Anna says softly. "Are you alright? Can I get you anything? A glass of water perhaps?" Marian is just about to decline when she realizes, she is in deed very thirsty. "That would be kind, thank you. If it's no trouble to you...?"

Anna emits a mirthfull, little snort. " I've been running a tavern for _years_ , I guess, it's no trouble at all." Quietly, she slips out of the room and soon returns with a decanter and a glass. Marian drinks it up in one gulp and pours herself another. "Thank you so much, Mrs...Strong?" The other woman smiles. "Just call me Anna. Feeling better now?" "Yes, thank you, I'm alright." Marian smiles and watches her with covert curiousity. " It's just...been quite some upsetting days." Anna pats her hand, sympathetically. " I know how terrible you must feel. And I'm so sorry. Edmund- the _major_ I mean, has been so happy to have you here. And I was happy to meet someone from his family as well." she says with a- somewhat forced- smile. "It is horrible, what has happened to you. If only we had known- but things were _frantic_ here those last days. When Simcoe came back to Setauket, he missed no opportunity to terrorize Edmund. But that even he would be able to-" She shakes her head, takes a deep breath and wants to get up. " But we shouldn't talk about that now. I'd better let you sleep, you really need rest."

"No, wait..." Marian objects quickly and grabs her by her arm. "... _please_. I don't think I could go back to sleep now and I...I would like to ask you something." "Of course." Anna nods, slowly sinking back to the edge of the bed. Marian thinks for a moment, before she looks up to the other woman and says softly: "Captain Simcoe...you've known him for quite some time, I suppose?" "Oh yes." Anna replies darkly."He first came to Setauket with your uncle's detachment. Must be three years ago, now. He's been a lieutenant then under Major Hewlett." Marian nods. "He told me that much. Tonight- before...before Mr Brewster came to rescue us- I...confronted him with...I knew something was wrong, I accidently heard his men talking about it, that he was planning to...kill my uncle." She pauses and watches the other womans' face. "I asked him, why he would do that, why he would hate my uncle so much..." Anna nods, considerately, an uninterpretable expression on her pale face. "What did he say?" she asks flatly. "Well he... " Marian starts. " Bad things. Nothing but lies, I'm sure of it."

"Like what?" She sighs. "That my uncle was incapable of his command. That he let rebels get away on purpose. That he wanted to get him court martialed. That he collaborated with the enemy to set an ambush for him and kill him... " Anna listens to her, with a deepening frown. "That's what he told you ?" Marian pauses and watches Anna's face carefully. "He said, that my uncle... that he stole the woman he loved from him. That would be you, right?"

Anna snorts and blurts out a short, mirthless laugh. "How can you steal something that has never been his, in the first place?" She sighs and shakes her head. "Do you want to hear the truth?" "Yes, of course." "Alright. " She frowns. "But...it is quite a long story. Perhaps we'd better tomorrow...?" "No, please." Marian insists. " I _need_ to know."

Anna pours herself a glass of water and drinks it up slowly, before she begins. "First of all, just this much...your uncle- Edmund - is a man of honour. Of - _kindness_. A good, sincere gentleman, who I came to appreciate more and more every day. And finally- to _love,_ even as you might have guessed by now." Her cheeks pinken and her pretty face illuminates with a shy smile. Which is washed away abruptly with her next words. "Captain Simcoe " she spits out the name like a curse. " is _none_ of these things. It is no wonder, that he and the Major despised one another right from the start. Edmund always tried to treat the people in Setauket with outmost respect, whereas for Simcoe- everyone is an alleged traitor or rebel spy. He's so paranoid, he sees treason everywhere and takes every opportunity to cause fear and terror."

She pauses and thinks for a moment. "Those traitors he speaks of, well- he arrested a number of people, alleged rebel spies, but in fact, just people who dared to speak their minds- which is just as good as a crime to him- and he would have sent them all to the gallows- and without proper trial, if Edmund had not managed to stop him. One of them- " She pauses and swallows, looking at Marian with big, dark, wet eyes, her face grimacing in pain and disgust. "One of them was Caleb Brewster's uncle. An old, invalid man, whose only crime had been to have an opinion of his own and be bold enough, to speak for himself. But never would he have shouted defiance or treason, nor done anything against the law." She falters and swallows hard, before she continues hastily. "The rebels came to Setauket to free the prisoners, true. And Simcoe, he - he _shot_ the poor, old man right in front of his nephews' eyes. Then, he tried to take over command by force." She shakes her head. " He was out of his mind. Would have killed anyone who stood in his way. Fortunately- Edmund managed to overpower him. And for _that_..." She looks Marian in the eyes. " for that he should have been court martialed. And no one has ever deserved it more than him."

Marian stares at her, mesmerized. " But this did not happen." she whispers. "No. " Anna says in a bitter voice. "Instead, they gave him a _command_.The Queen's Rangers. And then, he came back with this band of mercenaries and murderers, obsessed by thoughts for revenge." She pauses and sighs and buries her face in her hands. When she looks up again, her beautiful, dark eyes are in tears. "I didn't know!" she whispers, her voice cracking. "I should have known better."

She swallows and wipes her eyes, before she continues. "One week later, Edmund was captured by rebel soldiers. From here, from Whitehall. It was-horrific." "Oh," Marian says, whide-eyed. "Why?" Anna laughs mirthlessly. "That, too, was Simcoes work. But we didn't know that by then. He seemed to be perfectly surprised, apparently very concerned about my safety, too..." She shudders, like in disgust. Struggles for words, apparently feeling uncomfortable to continue speaking. "I didn't know what to do. I was worried sick for Edmund. It was winter, freezing cold and him being all alone in the rebels camp, exposed to the cold and their torture..."

She looks up and tells a terrified Marian, that he had lost two of his toes, that he had to amputate them himself because they were frostbitten, with a blunt knife the rebels gave him in order to kill himself. Anna sighs and goes on, quickly and breathlessly. " No one wanted to do anything to help him. So I went to Captain Simcoe and begged him to rescue Edmund. And he- he promised to do it. The morning after, he took his men towards the rebel camp. I was so- _relieved_. I really believed..." Her voice dies down. "Before he left, he asked me to kiss him goodbye." "How horrible..." "Oh yes. " Anna snorts. ( _The woman I loved._ )

"But did he rescue him?" Anna looks at her with big, shiny eyes. " No. He tried to _kill_ him. That had been his design all the way." She smiles grimly. " But Edmund surprised him. They fought and he took his knife and thrusted it into his stomach. Not deep enough, though..." she says regretfully. "Edmund managed to escape. And ever since- it's been a shooting war between the two of them. Between Edmund's troops and the Queen's Rangers. Simcoe insidiously killed some of Edmunds men, swore not to stop until Edmund would give over his command to him." She pauses and shrugs. "And that is why... because it just couldn't go on like this, because Edmund didn't get any help from his superiors and saw no other chance, to stop Simcoe's terror, he had to look for help... _elsewhere_."

She looks at Marian. " Caleb is a childhood friend of mine. I asked him to get rid of Simcoe for me. After the murder of his uncle, he had every reason to wish him dead, too...but he failed, and that's when," she finishes with a sigh, " _you_ came in." Marian nods thoughtfully. "What will we do now?" she asks. Anna smiles and pats her hand again. " _You_ won't do anything but rest. Don't worry, you're safe in here...as for now, at least."

"But what will _he_ do?" Annas face hardens and she says in a cold voice: " Oh, he will come , no doubt about that. He will try to attack us here at Whitehall. But this time- we're prepared. It will be the last time that we will have to deal with this man. This time...this time he went _too far_."

When Anna has left, Marian lies awake for a long time, trying to digest the words she just heard. As it seems, she sleepwalked into something like a running battle behind the stage of war here, and her captor is nothing less but the main villain in a play where the end is not yet in sight. She tries to weigh up the two stories she has heard that night against each other and tends to believe Anna's words. From what she has experienced with Simcoe, it is not hard to imagine, he would have done all the things Anna accuses him of.

But still...if Simcoe's story was a downright lie, Anna's on the other hand has at least some... _holes_ in it. First of all, Anna has spoken emotionally charged, true, but still all but offhand. And this is certainly not the sort of story one would love to tell in long, cold winters nights, sitting comfortably by the fireside, so one might assume, that she concocted her words before, working out what to tell her and what not, perhaps even together with her uncle. Which means that there is in deed a secret which they don't want her to know. And considering her dramatic rescue, this secret has to do something with the sympathetic, bearded Mr Brewster, Annas " childhood friend", apparently in command of his own little army and obviously a rebel soldier, an _enemy._ And even though his hatred for the Captain, who shot his uncle, is most understandable, would he really risk his own life and the life of his men, to do a British officer a favour, just because he is, incidentally ,romantically involved with an old acquaintaince of his? And even if so, why would her uncle agree to ask a rebel for help, of all things? Why not just inform his superiors, why take the risk to arouse suspicion of collaborating with the enemy?

Simcoe had claimed, he does just that. Is he really just paranoid? Enough to launch an attack at a British outpost just because he bears a grudge against its commander? Over a woman he has kissed just _once_? Somehow, Marian finds that hard to believe.

She sighs and tosses around in her bed. Simcoe had not seemed exactly _mad_ to her. But evidently, he is. And then, when she remembers how he would switch from cool, polite gentleman manners to hot-tempered fits of violence... and _passion_...

Well, she had kissed him more than _once_. And although he had effectively forced her ( in the beginning anyway ) and she had not been herself, as drunk and panic-stricken as she had been... It had been _wrong_ , completely and utterly wrong.

The trouble is, it had not _felt_ wrong. Doesn't that mean she is just as evil, or at least, just as mad? For she can still feel the fevery chills he gave her, attenuated now, but still present just at the thought of it. Every touch of his hands had left invisible marks underneath her skin, tiny, inflammable spots, which would burst open at the slightest pressure and throb in oddly pleasant pain. Whatever maddening fever burned inside him, it seems to be highly contagious.

But then, how would she know? Perhaps, it was always like that? She tries to imagine the things she did with him with another man, a _kind_ man, a gentle man- and fails. It is like trying to compare a beautiful sunny day to the disturbing, violent power of a thunderstorm, just because both are- in a way- weather. Impossible.

There is no second chance for a first kiss. This would be hers, for all time now. And, for good or bad, at least it had been, well... _intense_.

Still. She would have imagined the sensation to be more- _heroic_ \- or at least, less...embarrassing, and first of all, not happening to her with a man she practically hates everything about.

But anyway, it can't be helped. And it doesn't matter in the end. If Anna is right, the Queen' s Rangers would come and attack the town tomorrow, her uncle and his men would confront them, and even though the output of the conflict was ambiguous, it would undoubtedly bring death and ruin.

And for what? Meaningless, all of this, as war always is, every death on the battlefield for some great cause, for honour, for freedom, for some king or general, and in the end, the world would not be one bit better than before and those, who suffered the most, were always the non- involved, the innocent ones, women and children, for whom men supposedly claimed to do all this, all these terrible things.

Why had she come here at all ? To this country, infested with madness, where apparently everyone was fighting against everyone else and it was impossible to take sides? What kind of future could she have here? Best she could hope for, was to survive the coming battle and afterwards be sent back to England, to spend the rest of her life at the reluctantly granted mercy of her- despised from the heart- relatives. She's rather be dead. Buried in miserable and hopeless thoughts like that and full of self pity, Marian falls asleep at last.


	6. Dawn Song

After the battle, Captain Simcoe musters his men and notes with grim pride that he lost no more than two- despite the advantage of surprise on the ambushers' side- and it seems to be just fair, that these two are the fools who abandoned their guard posts.  
Strayed across the place there are at least half a dozen enemy bodies, and he can't help but shake his head in disbelief about this anew, pointless waste of lifes- not that he cares, but it does make him wonder, how so much incompetence is even possible.  
Of course, it was a nothing but a feint, a deception maneuver to steal his hostage- because when he returns to his room he finds her gone, and his _gun_ with her, to make things worse.  
Apparently, he underestimated Hewlett's willingness to sacrifice himself. So again, the coward preferred to send his rebel friends to do the dirty work for him, but that won't save him no more than buy him some time. And now he has the ultimate proof of his collaboration with the enemy.  
His men want to take up the chase for the fugitives, but he tells them no, there is no need. He knows where he will find them.  
He considers to send word to John André and wait for reinforcements, but for one thing, he has a feeling his superior wouldn't approve of the hostage-taking and for another, he does not, by no means, want to lose the opportunity to send this traitor to hell _at first hand_.  
And he needs to be quick. Hewlett doesn't have much of a regiment left in Setauket, but he, too, could ask for reinforcements, maybe he already did. So there's no time to waste. He gives his men an hour to strike camp before they leave for Setauket.

The capture of the garrison is the least of his worries, it is poorly bastioned, undermanned and hard to defend and he has done it before with no effort at all. And most likely, Hewlett will barricade himself up in Whitehall rather than risk an open battle, so there shouldn't be a problem.  
If only he wasn't so tired. He cannot remember when he last had more than three or four hours of sleep and finds himself craving his bed rather than being on horseback again. It says, that there shall be no rest until a task is accomplished, but he feels he might have taken the saying a little too literally lately.  
But first things first. When the garrison is his, there will be a bed waiting for him at the tavern, although the place definitely lost much of its charme, since its former owner had been replaced with this fat, little Dutch piglet.

Thinking of the tavern inevitably involves thoughts of Anna Strong, the woman who made this place feel almost like a home, before she made herself at home in the, certainly most comfortable, bed of the Major in Whitehall, out of his sight and reach, again. Not out of his mind, though.  
Since he couldn't have her,she has captivated his thoughts in a different way, her picture is imprinted in his memory and there it remains, stunningly beautiful, larger than life, an idol, an icon, an ideal no other woman, either real or imaginated, could ever match.  
Alas- and it must be only because of his exhaustion, which makes it hard to focus on anything really- when he tries to conjure up her features before his minds' eye now, the picture keeps blurring and rippling like a reflection on troubled waters, soon to be dissolved and washed away by another face with bright eyes instead of dark ones.  
It really irritates him to see those strange features try and overlay an- already perfect- painting. He doesn't want that. The proportions are all wrong, colour of hair, of eyes, especially those. How she has looked at him.  
He is used to a certain variety of emotions in other peoples eyes, when meeting his own.  
Fear, mostly; varying in intensity. Unease. Tension. Contempt. Reluctant respect. Caution. Calculation. And then, his counterpart would always be the first to drop his gaze.  
But Miss Fane's stare has been different. There has been fear in it too, yes, but also some kind of challenge. Certainly not any kind of appropriate way, a lady should look at a gentleman.  
Which, in a sense, is the reason, he has not _been_ one. And even though she clearly provoqued him- did she not come to his room in nothing but a nightgown?- he shouldn't have treated her that way. It is simply against his moral concept- or rather his need to project one- to force himself upon a woman. That is something he just does not do.

  
Not even that one time with Anna, when she had said all those really rude things to him, and it had not been easy, but if he knows one thing for sure, then that he could never, ever hurt her, no matter what she had done or might still do. The kind of chivalrous adoration he feels for her would never allow it in the first place. For Hewlett's niece, he has of course no such feelings. But even though the courtly love for an unattainable goddess is certainly most noble and honourable, it could become rather frustrating in the long run. And he had not had a woman in quite some time...  
But still. He shouldn't have done what he had- almost- done with her, had they not been interrupted. Disgraced her. _Raped_ her. But had he really? As an expert in unrequited affection, he can't help but think it had not felt one-sided at all...  
But he might be wrong. And he will most likely never know, because it won't happen again. One more unsolved riddle, another unfinished business, of which he has enough on the list already. He has no need for distractions, what he needs is order, _control_.  
Which, in and out itself, is the reason why the army has always been the perfect place for him, the _only_ place. The only place where his natural inclination towards violence is really required. Where the lines between friend and foe are clearly defined.  
And if his own actions may not always be _quite_ by the book, then only because he is permanently plagued by incompetent superiors. But this doesn't mean he would ever query the justification of the British cause. He hates the arrogance of the colonies- to think they could stand up against the natural order of things. Shouting freedom when they really meant chaos, anarchy, disorder.

  
He is no stranger to these things, he knows them all too well.  
Without the army, without a war to fight, this one or another, he would probably just be... drifting.  
Waste away his life with futile pleasures- lost inside a world, whose guidelines he would never fully understand and which would inevitably, always, stay a cold and empty place for him.

  
But when one of his men asks him what to do with Miss Fane's belongings, he finds himself telling him to take them with them, and for no particular reason.

 

They reach Setauket just before the early light of daybreak. A cool, damp mist covers still deserted fields.  
He looks out to the solitary, white ghost of the church on the hill, where the garrison and the cannons have been positioned since the outbreak of the war. As expected, it's a cake walk to recapture it, for the men who guard it drop their weapons almost immediately at the sight of him and his men, likely not willing to share the gruesome fate of their lately fallen comrades. He leaves the majority of his troops at the garrison, before he pays MrDeJong a visit at the tavern.  
The nervous, little piglet of a patron seems to be no morning person, because it takes him at least five minutes after the first polite knock on his door ( and several, not so polite ones, following ) to open the door, nightcap still on his ugly head, when he was just about to break it down.  
The Captain tells him his wishes in a calm, yet unmistakably threatening tone, no exit today for no one, breakfast and ale for his men in half an hour and not one minute later, and yes, he will take his old room and how many regimentals are currently lodged at the tavern again? They will have the day off in any case and he sends his men to their rooms with a quick sideglance.  
Dejong hurries to set himself to work and he hears his shrieking voice flush out the servants, when he sits down at one of the tables and stretches his sore legs.  
When the inn keeper returns and serves them their breakfast with shaky hands he questions him about Hewletts' troop strength and as it seems, no reinforcements have reached Setauket yet- at least, as much as the stammering picture of misery in front of him can tell- no new faces have been showing up in his tavern as of lately.  
He sits and considers his options, and Hewlett at Whitehall most likely does the same. The man may be a fool, but not so much as to hope he wouldn't come for him at all. He knows him long enough to know he will _never_ stop. But no one will make his way from Whitehall to town without being detected by his men, so he decides there is no need for haste and allows himself to catch up some sleep, before he would go and burn out that nest of serpents.

 

Unaware and unperturbed of the events to follow, the morning at Whitehall dawns with a sweet chorus of birds outside Marian's window.  
She has not slept much, but apart from a slight headache, she feels more refreshed and rested than she probably should after a night like this. For a while, she is just content to stay snuggled in the first soft and comfortable bed for a considerably long time. Then it all comes back.  
She sits up and gets out of bed, looking out of her window to the courtyard outside the house. Nothing but deceptive peace out there, only now and then servants pass by in their early morning activities.  
The manor is picturesquely surrounded by corn fields and the woods behind. She looks around her room and finds, some nice person ( Anna? ) has considerately put a fresh dress for her to wear at one of the chairs, a plain, brown gown with a white shirt to wear underneath and something she can put on without the help of a maid.  
The dress is too short and a bit oversized, especially in certain places, but quite tolerable together with the shirt, as an observant look at the mirror confirms.  
That bird's nest of unruly,blonde tangles on her head, however, is clearly _not_.  
Sighing, she takes up a brush on the drawer and works her hair as good as possible. There are no pins so she has to go without.  
Marian takes a closer look at her face in the mirror.  
If she had expected that yesterday's events would have visibly changed it in some magical way, she finds herself relieved and oddly disappointed at the same time.  
Whatever marks last night might have left on her, they do not show on her face, perhaps the skin around her mouth is a little sore, but that' s all.

She shrugs at her reflection, opens the door and steps out into the hallway and down the stairs towards the big parlor, which is deserted and quite impressive in the early light of day. But apparently, not everyone at the house is still asleep, for she can clearly hear voices behind a door, where she assumes to be her uncles' office, engaged in a heated argument.  
She walks closer and recognizes the calm, reasonable voice of her uncle himself, addressing a man called "Richard ", which must be the grim looking, elderly man, she had seen upstairs last night.

  
"Richard," her uncle says in a tone of restrained excitement. "Don't you see, we have no choice? As long as the man lives, we will never be safe, none of us!"  
"And therefore we are going to kill a British officer?" the older man barks back at him. " No, I won't let that happen!"  
"Father," a younger, but no less agitated voice interjects. " He had you _shot_! What more reason do you need to see he is dangerous ?"  
"Nonsense. Captain Simcoe was standing right next to me when I was shot."  
"Still, it was at his command!"  
Marian sinks to her knees and tries to peer through the keyhole, but sees nothing but the legs and boots of the speakers.  
"We don't know that! And you're the last one I would believe a word about that matter!"  
"Richard, can we please discuss that later? " Her uncle again. "We should concentrate on the immediate danger now. As it is, I don't have enough men for a fight face to face...but if we manage to take out the leader, the rest of the pack will likely run..." he says, as if to convince himself.  
"What about the guns you've taken from us? They're still in the church, right? All you need to do is give it back and let Setauket itself stand up against Simcoe..." the hot-headed, unknown young man says adjuringly.  
"There's no way I will let that happen." the Major replies flatly.  
"Gentlemen" a well-known bass chimes in. Caleb Brewster, her knight in-not so shiny-armor last night. "Whatever you're planning to do, I have to bring my men back safe to the camp. I did my bit, and at great cost of life ..."  
"And we are grateful for that, Caleb, we really are." Anna's hoarse alto. " But can't you see- if we don't stop Simcoe now, everything has been in vain. All would be _lost_..."  
"Annie..." he cuts her off, surprised, and she pauses.  
"I mean- for me. If anything happens to Edmund, excuse me, I just can't bear the thougt of it..."  
"Now now, my dear, all will be good, you'll see." her uncle murmurs in order to stop her desperate sobs.  
It is then, that an embarrassed Marian decides, she cannot bear to stand in front of that door any longer like some nosy maid , listening to a conversation which is obviously not meant for her to hear.  
She gets up and catches her breath, before she knocks at the door.

A sudden silence answers her, before her uncle cautiously opens the door a tiny crack, and peers out to her, without letting her in.  
"Marian" he gives her an awkward smile. " You're... awake already ?"  
"I...yes. Forgive me, I didn't mean to disturb you."  
He shakes his head, embarrassed. "No, no, that is... well, yes, there's a lot to talk about, you understand? I...we will discuss everything at breakfast...in an hour, yes? Perhaps..." He looks her over with a shy smile. " Perhaps you would like to...have a bath in the meantime, yes?"  
"A bath. " she echoes. "I...sure. Why not?"  
"I meant no...I just thought that..." His comical, boyish embarrassment makes it hard for her not to smile. He takes a deep breath. "Aberdeen should be in the garden. She will take care of it. I' ll see you in an hour then, my dear?"  
And, with a forced smile and an awkward pat of her hand, she is dismissed.

A bath, then. Very well- and who might Aberdeen be? she wonders.  
She wanders around the hall, until she finds a small door next to the kitchen, which leads into the backyard. She steps out into a well-kept garden, sweetly smelling of fresh spring blossoms. To her great regret, she can't find a herbal garden, just a very small patch of culinary herbs in front of the kitchen window. It would be good to create one, when all this was over, especially now that her doctor's case was gone...  
A second later, the absurdity of her thought makes her snort out a mirthless laugh. _When all this is over?_ It would most likely be fresh graves to dig then...  
She walks around the corner of the big house when she suddenly hears the rapid clatter of wooden shoes- and almost runs into a young, black maid, who just barely manages to stop in front of her, breathless and wide-eyed.  
"Oh! I'm sorry Missus!"  
"Aberdeen?" Marian takes a guess.  
"I- yeah?"  
She smiles at her."I'm Marian...Major Hewlett's niece from England. My uncle told me I'd find you here. If you'd please be kind enough to prepare a bath for me?" She looks down at herself and gives Aberdeen a crooked little smile. " I seem to need one."  
Aberdeen looks around rashly before she turns back at Marian, opens her mouth and starts: " Of course, Missus. I'll do that right away...it's just... _Thomas_...I can't find him."  
"Thomas?"  
"Mrs Woodhull's little boy. She asked me to look after him... he was playing in the garden ...I've just been in the kitchen for a minute to get him a cake..." she gasps out.  
"I understand. Well, he can't have gotten far then, I suppose? How old is he?"  
"Just three..." She peers out at the dark edge of the woods across the corn field behind the house. " He was babbling something about an abandoned birds' nest he saw in the woods yesterday. I just didn't really listen...I'm afraid he ran there...I'm sorry, Missus but I gotta go fetch him."  
Marian looks across the woods edge and thinks quickly. A walk would do her good. She lays her hand on Aberdeen's arm. " Don't worry, I'll get him for you. You look after my bath meanwhile, alright? If anyone asks you, just tell them, he's with me."  
"I- thanks, Missus. He can't have run far... I've been away only a minute...maybe two..." a conscious-stricken Aberdeen assures her.

Marian steps out on the field path and makes her way towards the trees.  
It is a beautiful morning. A slight mist lingers across the fields, with its waving rows of still-green ears, and their sweet smell mingles pleasantly with the fresh spring air and the omnipresent wood smoke from the farm cabins around.  
"Thomas?" she calls out into the fields but only the whispers of the grain ears and the early morning birds answer her.  
Anna- as well as her uncle and those other men she ( accidently ) eavesdropped on, seem to have no doubt about an inescapable, violent confrontation with Simcoe. But right now, in the faint, diffuse light of the fresh morning, it is hard to imagine that anything bad could happen here at all. Would he really go so far now that his original design had failed? An ambush in the woods is one thing, but an attack on a well- defended british outpost?  
This is a beautiful place, she thinks, almost like back home. It could become a _new_ home for her. _Peace and quiet_. She could create that herbal garden after all. This land is full of plants she has not even heard of. She could make new potions if she wouldn't be able to retrieve her belongings. Setauket must have a doctor and perhaps he has need of an apprentice. Perhaps he would even pay her and she could buy a new dress someday, one that would fit just perfectly...

  
Marian has reached the forest's edge. She looks around once more. If Aberdeen had been away "just a minute-maybe two", little Thomas must be in deed be a fast runner... "Thomas?" she calls out to the rustling treetops. "Where are you, little one?"

  
Under the dark crowns of the pines, the air is a bit chilly. Having left her cloak in her room, Marian shivers slightly. A warm bath would be wonderful, in deed. With some pleasant fragrance in it, something flowery, to cover up the wood smoke...the mere thought of it suddenly seems to be outmost compelling. She steps forwards into the woods.  
"Thomas?" she shouts at the trees, a trifle impatient now, her mind already indulging in sweet smelling, foaming, hot water...

" _I suppose, you're looking for this_?"

  
At the sound of the chirping, overly cheerful voice, her pleasant phantasies immediately crumble into dust.

  
_Oh please, no._

  
A single ray of sunlight breaks through the roof of the treetops, and illuminates a scene, which- in other circumstances- might have looked quite charming.  
A soldier, tall and handsome, standing next to his horse and in his arms, the blond-curled little cherub of a boy, trustingly leaning against his broad cheast.

  
Captain Simcoe had found Thomas before her.

To see him in front of her like this, when she had just thought of him, or rather thought of him to -hopefully- stay absent, comes as a shock.  
The rural idyll suddenly loses all of its peacefull, quiet charme, and breezes in a frightening chill, all the colours suddenly seem overly bright, too saturated to bear. The forest green of his coat against the lighter green of the trees, the glaring red shock of his hair, the way too intense, hypnotic blue of his eyes. Her headache returns, and with a vengeance.

  
He gives her a broad smile, which covers her whole body with goose bumps.  
"Captain" she says lamely.  
He takes a small bow to her, still smiling. "Miss Fane. A lovely morning, isn't it? And just look what I've found. Some little birds, fallen from their nest."  
Encouragingly, he turns to the little boy in his arms who, after a wary look at her, slowly reaches out his tiny hand and presents his treasure, said bird's nest and its cheeping, downy inhabitants.  
"I see, you enjoy the peaceful morning hours just like I do, " Simcoe goes on jovially. "A walk in the woods? And all alone?" His bright gaze flickers over her and she is fully aware what she must look like, in Anna's cast-off, too short and too wide house-dress, her hair loose and her cheeks red from the morning chill like a farm girl's.  
Marian takes a deep breath and returns his stare calmly and unafraid- or so she hopes.  
"I've just been looking for Thomas here. Thanks for fetching him for me. I..." she swallows. "I'm sure, his mother will be worried sick. I beg you, Captain, just...just let him go home."

He doesn't answer right away. When he finally does, his voice sounds oddly thin.  
"Home?" he echoes.  
The smile has left his face. He furrows his brow and stares at her in disbelief. His eyes blink rapidly. He looks confused- and mortally offended.  
"You think, I'd... _hurt_ him ?" he says incredulously. " Why would I do that?"  
Why, indeed ? Marian curses herself silently and opens her mouth. "Of course I don' t..."  
"Very well." He shrugs, before he takes Thomas and carefully drops him to the soft forest ground. When he looks back at her, his eyes burn with suppressed rage.  
"I would _never_ harm a child, " he hisses through clenched teeth, so angry it makes her flinch. "I _like_ children."  
Thomas seems to know that, too. He looks up at him and pulls impatiently at his breeches, evidently eager to gain a higher ground again.

Simcoe exhales sharply in order to regain his composure.  
"Whitehall may not be the safest of places at the moment." he states in a cool voice. " But _of course_ , I don't wish to give Mrs Woodhull any reason for concern."  
He turns to the little boy with a smile. "Run home, Thomas. Show your mother that bird's nest."  
Thomas hesitates for a moment, before he does as he's told, the good boy he is. Marian turns around to follow him, but is not surprised, when an iron grip impedes her getaway, not tight enough to cause her pain, but only just.  
"Not _you_. " Simcoe's smile has returned, but there's no kindness in it any longer. "I'd rather have you come with me, if you'd please?"  
It is not a request. And there's no sense in arguing, as the icy gaze of his eyes tells her clearly.  
"You haven't brought my gun by any chance? "he asks lightly and looks her over as if he considered to search her for hidden weapons. "Or a knife, while we're on it...?"  
Marian presses her lips to a thin line to keep herself from saying anything that might get her into even greater trouble than she already is.  
He raises his eyebrows. "No ? Come then..."  
He gestures at his horse and helps her mount, before he takes his seat in the saddle behind her.

They ride the few miles to town in silence. One of his hands is at the bridles and his other arm is holding her. The warmth of his body behind her seems to burn right through her clothes and reminds her automatically of their heated embrace last night. And strange as it is - she is a prisoner again and her captor's fondness for reckless, blonde-curled little things certainly does not include her- his arms around her are enough to create an illusion of safety. It is like their bodies correspond in a way they could never do with words.  
She finds herself wishing, they could just keep on riding like this, to whatever destination, as long as it is far away. It is ridiculous, she couldn't explain why she would feel that way, and even more so in a situation like this, but she feels it all the same. How is this possible? she wonders helplessly, and then, how is it possible, he doesn't feel it, too? She leans back into him slightly, in order to cause any kind of reaction and just maybe his heart beats a little faster now. But then, maybe not. She just couldn't tell.

The small town is still rather deserted and the few people they meet on the street, look up at them curiously before they drop their eyes quickly at the sight of the man in forest green. Apparently, Setauket's people know, he is someone to be avoided for their own sake.  
They stop at the tavern and he leads her inside. One of the rangers jumps to his feet at his arrival and reports : " No movements at the garrison, Captain!" before he notices the girl by his side and trails off. Everyone looks at her with curious eyes, making her feel like the biggest idiot, to manage and run right into him again, or even worse, like she would do that on _purpose_. Marian feels her face flush hot with embarressment.  
Simcoe instead, proves his dubious talent of switching from one extreme to another in a heartbeat once more.  
"I'll escort you to your room, Miss Fane," he says cheerfully, guiding her up the stairs and into a room, which is evidently his own.  
There are his personal properties scattered about, but amongst them...  
"I've allowed myself to bring your belongings" he says blithely, pointing out to her suitcases and her- doctors case! He looks at her with such an expectant smile, that she almost thanks him. He certainly didn't have to do that.

  
Marian takes a deep breath.  
"Captain..."  
That smile is still lingering on his face. Perhaps this is a good sign? She must believe, it is.  
She steels herself and steps towards him, as close as she dares. For a moment she considers to sink down to her knees but can't force herself to actually do it. Instead she reaches out and takes his hand.  
Marian is well aware of the fact, that she has nothing to offer what he couldn't just as well take whenever he wanted to, like he did last night- assuming he still wanted her _at all_. If she is in his room right now, then certainly for no other purpose than to serve as another reinsurance against her uncle. But she has to try.  
" _John._.." she starts, forcing all her desperation into her voice, rapidly thinking of something that might convince him. " _Please_... you don't have to do that. There must be another way. My uncle...I'm sure, he would...couldn't he just... just go away?" He doesn't answer at first and she feels encouraged to go on. "What if he just left the field to you? You would be in command then. Is that not what you want? Nobody needs to get hurt..."

  
But it is no use. His face softens for a moment at her tone, but it was obviously the wrong thing to say... he withdraws from her touch and takes a step towards the room, avoiding her eyes. When he speaks, it is like she had said nothing at all.  
"I'm glad I have the opportunity to talk to you, Miss Fane. " he says in an indifferent tone. " I believe, I owe you an apology." He pauses, and turns back at her, in a resolute manner.  
"I know I have been taking... _liberties_ with you last night." He presses his lips to a thin line. " That wasn't right. I sincerly beg your pardon for my lapse."

  
Marian gapes at him.  
Had he even heard a single word she just said? Apparently not, for he looks at her, as if he seriously expects her forgiveness for the one thing- of all things he has done and is going to do- which wasn't- well, _entirely_ awful. It makes her so mad, that the words are out before she has time to think about them.

  
"Are you really stupid enough to think, Anna will love you if you kill my uncle?" she gasps out.

  
He takes a sudden step towards her, with such an air of threat in his wide-eyed stare, that she automatically holds her hands up to her face.  
Marian closes her eyes and waits for the blow. But nothing happens. When she dares to look at him again, he seems to be perfectly in control again.

  
" _Mrs Strong_ has nothing to do with this," he says icily. "Hewlett has committed treason against the crown. And _traitors_ deserve to be punished. This is _not at all_ a matter of personal feelings."

  
He pauses to walk over to his desk and pour himself a drink. "You seem to be under the misguided impression that you have to protect your uncle from me," he goes on in an offended tone. "But in fact it is _me,_ who protects this town from traitors like him and his rebel friends."

  
Remembering the fearful peeks she has seen earlier, Marian has her doubts, the people of Setauket would agree on that, but that is clearly not something to utter aloud at this moment. Simcoe empties his glass and takes a deep breath. "If Hewlett were in my situation, he would do the same thing to me, and _worse_ , make no mistake about it. And as to his rebel friends... I know from my own painful experience, how they treat their prisoners...you simply have no idea..."

  
Marian swallows, and tries to calm down her heart from pounding rapidly against her chest.  
"But Captain... if you attack Whitehall, there will be...resistance. And more casualties on both sides...do you _want_ that?"  
His eyes blaze up in delight. "Oh, but I hope there _will_ be a fight." he says, suddenly cheerful again. "And I thank you for your warning, but you really don't have to be concerned about my safety..."

  
There's a knock on the door. He turns around and opens it to the sight of Akinbode, who, with a quick uneasy sideglance at Marian, hands his Captain a letter. Simcoe nods and closes the door before he opens and reads it. A small smile crawls up the corners of his mouth. He looks up at Marian again. "Like I said," he continues. "your concerns, Miss Fane, are completely unneccessary. Your uncle just sent me an invitation to Whitehall, for a meeting under the flag of truce. Beyond doubt, to sign his capitulation."  
He puts the letter down and adjusts his uniform in order to leave. He looks at her once more, then to his desk and makes an inviting gesture at the crystal carafe on it. "I'm afraid, I really have to go now. I will ask one of my men to bring you some breakfast. Feel comfortable with my madeira as long as I'm gone..." and with that he takes a short bow at her and walks out the door.  
And this time, she can hear a key turn around and lock it.

Marian stares at the door for a moment, her eyes burning with supressed tears of rage. Then she quicky walks over to the desk, takes the carafe and throws it against the door with full vigour. The sound of cracking crystal is a poor ease to the pain that rages inside her. And certainly, another point on his list of her- not very lady-like -qualities.

  
Taken liberties, yes? A _lapse_ , that's what she is to him?

  
"I hope they'll shoot you." Marian whispers fiercely towards the closed door. "I hope you die." But a spiteful voice in her head whispers back and says: And _who_ have you really been trying to save now?


	7. Payback

Akinbode is startled, _no_ , seriously dismayed, to find that girl in Simcoe's company again and in his _room_ now, on top of that, yet he wouldn't dream to ask his Captain how it came to this.

However, he is relieved about the letter from Hewlett. Apparantly, the major has seen reason, when he discovered his garrison to be in their hands again, and sees no other option than to surrender himself at last. Simcoe, too, looks pleased, but he remains careful and suspicious. He orders his men to stay combat-ready at the encampment, as well as at the tavern and takes only Appleton and Akinbode himself with him to Whitehall.

Akinbode just wishes the whole issue to be finished as soon as possible. He is not a man who would ever back down from a decent fight, but those last days and those enemies they are facing right now, this is all not quite right. Starting with his former commander Robert Rogers, who now seems to be- or has been for a while- some devious spy, through to these regimentals who are supposed to be their allies, well- he never liked them much any way. But he finds himself wishing they had at least a direct order from New York for arresting- or even killing- a British major. But it is not his business to question his commander's decision. He has the vague feeling, he might already have done that too often lately.

When they ride across the town towards Whitehall, he notices- and not without a feeling of stubborn pride- how the townsfolks are keen to avoid his gaze now. It is funny, in a way. When he was Jordan, the _slave,_ they used to see right through him as well. But now, they turn away their eyes out of _fear_. Which is certainly a lot better than contempt. Still, to be honest, it is not the only way, Akinbode wishes to be looked at ( or rather not looked at ).

 _Abigail_ , he thinks. His thoughts travel to New York, to Major André's house, where he had met her the last time. When he had delivered her son to her, Cicero. Such a fitting name for a clever boy like him. And his mother is clever, too. She can read, although she had tried hard to hide this secret from him. He smiles at the memory of it. She is brave, too. And beautiful. Akinbode can't remember a time, when he has not been in love with her. But now, he is able to provide for her, too, and for her son, of course. He had told her, that one day he would return and ask her to run away with him. Leave all this behind...

She had not seemed impressed by his new duty and uniform, though. She had not been too thrilled about running away with him either. She _likes_ it there, it is obvious. To be a mere servant for Andre, who is a great man, no question about that, but still...what would keep her there, in the end? Does her master, no, he corrects himself- not her master. They don't have _masters_ any more. Does her- employer- appreciate her services so much? He'd better, Akinbode thinks. Not just- _that_ much, maybe. André isn't exactly what one would call a restrained man concerning women. And women seem to be attracted by him like moths to a candle. What if Abigail sees more in him than just her boss? God, where did that just come from? The mere thought of it makes him sick with jealousy. He shakes himself inwardly and steels himself for their upcoming task.

The bright shades of Whitehall materialize before them in the morning light. Simcoe watches the building with a faint smile across his pale, sunlit features. He stops his horse and orders them to do the same. Akinbode had half expected the Major to wait for them outside the house, ready to be lead to slaughter like a lamb. But this is not the case. More than that, the whole place looks deserted, no soldiers at the front door, not even servants running across the yard. His Captain seems to hesitate. He stares indecisively at the big, colonial building, then back across the wooded landscape around, as if sensing some obscure kind of danger. But that would be ridiculous. Not with the rangers holding the garrison. Not under the flag of truce. And most of all, not from _Hewlett,_ a man who would stick faithfully to his sacred principles until the very end.

At last, Simcoe seems to come to the same conclusion. He shrugs and turns to him with a crooked smile. "Well- looks like the good major wants us to ring the door bell." He makes as if to dismount, but then suddenly a single figure appears at one of the upstairs windows. The shape of a woman, in a dark gown, dark hair, dark eyes, too far away to make out the expression on her features. She just stands there, unmoving, one of her pale hands against the window frame. Her eyes seem to be fixated on the Captain, who looks back at her like in a dream. It is Anna Strong.

For a tiny moment of distraction he will never forgive himself afterwards, a fractional part of a second only, Akinbode finds himself staring at her, too. He couldn't tell where the shot came from. It seems to come out of nowhere. Time comes to a halt. When it sets in again, it seems to run slowly, like thick maple syrup. The woman at the window turns around in slow motion and retreats to her room.

The gunshot hits Simcoe's chest with a slam and makes him him fall back in his saddle, his eyes torn wide-open. His mouth gapes open in a silent, staggered gasp.

Akinbode and Appleton immediately pull their bayonets, frantically looking out for their attackers. There is a faint rustling in the underwood next to them and Appleton spurs his horse into the direction of the sound, but is only a flock of birds who flutter up, chirping, at his approach. Akinbode looks back at his Captain, who is still in the saddle, one hand pressed to his chest, staring in horror and disbelief at the blood bubbling through his cramped fingers. " _Captain!_ " he hears Appleton's cry from across the building. " I... I don't _see_ anyone! What shall we do?" " _Fall back!"_ Akinbode hears himself yell. " Captain... we must _retreat_. You are _injured_!"

Simcoe stares at him, his eyes glassy and distant like a sleepwalker's. "Captain, _please_! Can you...can you _ride_?" And to his boundless relief, Simcoe nods slowly and pulls the bribes. His coat across his chest is already soaked with blood. But apparantly, the shock of the shot spares him from feeling pain. That is, as yet. He manages to ride all the way back to Setauket, crouched in the saddle like a drunk, his face- pale enough as it is- seems to lose the rest of its colour rapidly with each fresh stream of blood pumping from his wound. Whatever keeps him going, must be sheer, iron will.

Akinbode helps him dismount and half carries him through the tavern door, where he finally collapses to the screams of his men, aghast at his blood-soaked sight. They manage to carry him to the back parlor of the tavern and place him on one of the big tables there. Where he and another ranger pull off his blood soaked coat and he grabs whatever cloth he can find and presses it to the gunshot wound, in a frantic attempt to stop the ceaseless stream of blood from draining the life out of his Captain. "Lord in heaven," the other man, Johnson, mumurs through his breath. " That looks _bad_. What on earth has happened there... the major _attack_ you?"

Akinbode presses his lips to a thin line. "It was Rogers. Must be. Only man I know who is able to disappear into nowhere like a ghost. He must have been following us..." He shakes his head and takes a deep breath. Simcoes lies unmoving, eyes snapped shut, breath heavy going, moaning in pain. "We need a _doctor_! Fast! What's the name of that regiment surgeon again? Has he been at the encampment?" Johnson shrugs his shoulders. "Dunno. I'll go get him." "No. Wait." Akinbode thinks fast. This would take too long. And even if they'd find him, how eager would a regimental surgeon be to save the life of the most hated man amongst Setaukets military men? And they don't have anyone else, since their own surgeon had been killed.

But that's not quite true, is it? Akinbode casts a quick glance at Johnson. "Stay here. Press the cloth to the wound, as good as you can. I'll be right back."

Miss Fane is, of course, still in Simcoes room. He unlocks the door to her surprised, anxious, little face. She jumps to her feet at his sight. "You're back already? What happened? Is my _uncle_..." her voice trails off, threatening to turn into a sobbing cry. "He's fine. It's the Captain. He...he's been shot." Her hands fly to her mouth. " _Shot_? Who...how bad is it?" He quickly looks around the room. "Bad. He's _dying_. Get your doctor' s case, please, miss. Seems, you're the only chance we have. Will you try?"

She shakes her head, puzzled, but quickly starts to collect her things. "Akinbode, I have never seen a gunshot wound and know nothing about it except from the books..." "Then, we all better start praying." Akinbode says gloomily. "If he dies, there will be nothing _I_ can do to stop the men from razing this town to the ground...beginning with Whitehall."

They hurry down the stairs to the backroom of the tavern. Marian walks over to the tall, motionless figure on the table and takes a quick, examining look at the wound. Her expression is unreadable. Then she looks back at Akinbode. "I need water, hot, if possible. A pan and clean towels. Some... alcohol. You surely do have a...bullet forceps? Or a knife, if not. And I need you to assist me here. Just you, though." She casts a sideglance at a baffled Johnson. "And you, to hold him down when I...when I try to get that bullet out of him."

Some of her old confidence is back, Akinbode notices. She is no shy, flushing maiden when it comes to her... work. He hopes, this is a good sign. He turns to the flustered, red face of Dejong, who peers through the door in evident horror, and tells him firmly to get the required tools.

Although there's no doubt about the need for haste, Marian washes her hands very carefully with hot water and some kind of soap, made from a powder she has taken out of her doctor's case, before she touches the margins of the wound with cautious fingers. She frowns and bites her lips at the steady bloodstream. "Yes, I'll need to take it out." she murmurs, half to herself. Akinbode looks surprised. "Of course we do, don't we?" "Not always," she answers, rather distractedly. "My father...used to have a book from some German fellow... I don't remember the name, but he said, that sometimes, it could be better to leave it alone. If no vital organs are injured. It could be more fatal to extend the entry wound, but..." She looks at it carefully, then at the pale face of the Captain again. "There's no blood in his mouth, so it isn't the lungs, which is good....still...there's just _too_ much blood. It must have hit an artery... _Captain_ ? Can you hear me?"

She brings her face close to his. His eyes flutter open at her loud voice, glassy like in a fever, but then his gaze flies over her and manages to fixate on her face. "Miss... _Fane_ ," his voice is weak and hoarse, like he hadn't used it in years. There is the ghost of his usual sneer across his colourless features. "So...it seems...your wish... will be granted... _at last_." He coughs and closes his eyes in pain. She reaches out and takes his head into her hands, making him open his eyes again. "No," she says fiercely. "You are _not_ going to die. You hear me? I won't _let_ you." she breathes hard, her voice a fierce whisper. " _Under one condition_."

Akinbode frowns in surprise. What in hell was she trying to do here?  "You will leave my uncle alone." he hears her say. " If I am to save your life, you will do nothing against him any more. Nor will any of your men. Not now, or _ever_. Swear it to me."

Akinbode looks at his Captain's face. It has already assumed the sickly grey colour of near death he's seen often enough on other men in battle. It seems painfully obvious, he is going to die, no matter what they do. Simcoe seems to acknowledge that, too. He attempts another smile, but it comes out more like a grimace of death than anything. "Of course..." he breathes. " I _swear_." "Good." she nods severely, holding his gaze. Then, suddenly Simcoe makes the painstaking attempt to raise a shaking hand towards her face. A single tear springs from her eye and hits his trembling fingertips. His eyes widen. "How... _strange_ ," he says in a faint whisper. Then he falls back, evidently passing out in earnest.

Marian swallows and looks up, determined. "Now, hold him down, while I'll get that bullet out." She reaches for the forceps and crouches over his chest, eyes rigid, small, pink top of her tongue between her teeth, in full concentration. She carefully opens the entry wound with her fingers and inserts the forceps into the entrance. Her brow wrinkles at the effort and Simcoe's body begins to toss and tremble at the pain. Fresh blood spills all over her hands and her gown. Akinbode gasps at the hard labour to keep his Captain's heavy chest up, as does Johnson. Finally, after what seems to be an eternity but can, in fact, not have lasted longer than a few minutes, she cries out thriumphantly. " _Got_ you, you nasty little thing!" She holds up the forceps with the bullet in it, a tiny little thing, which looks way too small to have caused such damage. She drops it carelessly into the pan and reaches for a piece of clean cloth and the bottle of brandy, Dejong has brought them.

She gently dabs off the blood with the cloth, drained in alcohol. "Now," she breathes. "The tourniquets. Quick!" Akinbode stares at her, imcomprehensibly at first. "The... _bandages_. Just...keep him upright like that." It is not an easy thing to do, for Simcoe is unconscious and limp and lifeless as a rag doll. Much heavier, though. But she manages to make a solid pressure bandage around his chest. "Alright. You can put him down now, but...carefully. Johnson, is it? I need new linen and fresh water. And... sheets, lots of it, to keep him warm.Will you be good enough to get that for me?"

"Eh..." The burly soldier awkwardly scratches his neck. " Of course, Miss..." Once he's gone, Marian grabs the brandy bottle and takes a deep gulp. She shudders at the taste, but her gaze is steady, when she looks back at him. "That's it." she says at last. "I did what I could. _Now_ you can pray...if you wish."

Akinbode looks at the motionless shape of his Captain; he is still breathing, but barely, and the sick grey of death has not left his features. "He's not gonna make it, is he?" he says softly. "I...I don't know." She turns her face away from him, her voice suddenly shaky and uneasy. He clears his throat. "Why are you doing this?" She bends over the basin and begins to clean her hands meticulously in the warm, soapy water. "What do you mean?" she says, distracted." You asked me to, didn't you?" "No," he looks at her bowed head, curiously. "That's not what I mean." He thinks for a moment. "Do you...do you believe, he will keep his promise?"

She looks up at him. "You mean, like Anna did?" she says sharply. " _Well._ " She shakes out her hands across the basin, before she takes a fresh towel to wipe them dry. "I guess, I do. I'll have to." she shrugs. "And after all, I have offered _more_ than just a kiss. I offered to save his bloody life." She takes up the bottle again, takes another draught and grimaces." God, that's... _obnoxious_ , really. How can you drink that all the time?" She hands the bottle over to him and laughs softly at his staggered expression. "I know, I'm not much of a _gentlewoman._ _He_ doesn't miss a chance to show me that..."

And all of a sudden, Akinbode understands. It's that easy, really. He feels a wave of compassion wash over him. Poor girl. But then, who is he to judge her?

Johnson returns with the sheets, the towels and fresh water. "It's ok." he tells him. "You can go now." He pauses. "And you heard the Captain. Nothing's to be done, until he...until he will be able to give orders, again." Johnson nods, indecisively. "Aight. The men at the garrison...?" "Shall remain at attention. That would be all then, Sergeant." Johnson nods again and makes his retreat.

Marian waits until the door falls shut behind him, before she turns to Akinbode again. "Not much, we can do now. Just... _wait_. If you want to retreat, too..?" "No," he says firmly. "Unless you need anything else?" She shakes her head. Her eyes are fixated on the motionless figure in front of her. He shrugs and takes a seat across the table. "I have a girl in New York," he finds himself saying." Her name is Abigail." "Yes?" she says abstractedly. "She's lucky." He laughs softly." Please tell her that, if you ever meet her. She's working for Major André." "I will." she replies solemnly.

They fall silent again. Now and then he hears her get up to feel Simcoe's forehead, or tug the blankets tighter around him. He sips at the brandy bottle, lost in thoughts. The hours pass by, slowly. The lights outside begin to fade. Simcoe still clings to life, tough bastard that he is. He can hear her whisper to him, very softly, a soothening, murmuring stream of adjurations, he can't make out the words. Outside the room he hears the muffled voices of his comrades. He starts to doze off.

When he wakes up again, it is to a sudden chill. The fire in the hearth has gone out. There is a strange, unnatural cold breezing through the room, that makes him shudder deep inside. Is this the presence of death itself, he wonders in a sudden attack of superstition. He lights a candle and looks over to the makeshift stretcher of the table, on which his Captain is lying. A closer look confirms, he is still breathing. Steadier than before even, just like a man in a wholesome sleep. His face has lost that sickening, grey colour and taken on an almost lively, pink flush again. He looks...rather _healthy_.The blood from his gunshot wound seems to have stopped its flow beneath the bandages.

The girl lies sideways across his belly, her face very pale. She must have been cold, for she has taken Simcoe's blood soaked coat and wrapped it around herself. She seems to be in a death-like sleep, like she was very drunk but the brandy bottle is still standing at the table beside her, almost full. She doesn't even wake up, when he pulls at her arm, before he carefully lifts her up and carries her upstairs to the Captain's room and lays her out on his bed.


	8. Of Curses and Promises ( and how to break them )

_I did the right thing,_ Marian tries to convince herself over and over again on her way back to Whitehall.

  
The good weather is keeping up, all sun and blue skies and the joyfull twittering of birds promising another lovely spring day, yet this morning she completely fails to see it. And not just because she had woken up all battered and drenched in dried blood. She sits in the cart which carries her belongings, next to its owner- one Mr Robeson, a scruffy looking, grumpy fellow who has not exchanged a single word with her so far and is clearly no hopeful aspirant for Setauket's most popular citizen- and her spirits sink with every mile that Whitehall comes nearer.

  
_I did the right thing. I am a doctor and doctors are supposed to save people's lifes, regardless of whether they deserve it or not._

  
And that was, what she had done. Saved Simcoe's life. He would live, she is sure of it. When she had checked on him this morning, he had-although still unconscious- looked much better than she herself had felt. A miracle, Akinbode had called it, and quite rightly so. He had looked at her somewhat askance when he had said it. She had ignored it and instead occupied Mr Dejongs kitchen to make a strengthening potion from the herbs in her doctor's case and after that, she had told him she wanted to go home. He had not objected. _Home._ To Whitehall, where she is not at all sure if she will be welcome after what she had done.

  
_But I had no choice. I did it to save my uncle, not Simcoe. I didn't do it for him, not really._

  
In fact, she still doesn't know how she was able to do it _at all_. If Simcoe had survived,then not because of her healing skills, which were more instinctive than anything when it came to gunshot wounds. She had given her best, true, but it was obvious that he had been at death's door, and there had been a time, when she had been sure, he wouldn't make it despite all her efforts.

  
She had told Akinbode to start praying and maybe she had been praying, too. She had talked to him as well, she remembers. When he had been lying there as pale and cold as a corpse, she had told him, that this was just what he deserved. She had wished him dead, hadn't she?  She was happy to get rid of him. She had told him that, perhaps in order to bring back his fury, his anger, yet unsuccessfully.

  
He had stayed as lifeless and unmoving as before, lost somewhere in the depths of his mind, where she couldn't follow him, and she had become more angry and desperate with every minute. Perhaps she had cried. Perhaps she had begged him not to go, not to leave her all alone. She might have been desperate enough to do that. She doesn't know for sure.  
She doesn't know if he had heard a single word of all she had whispered to him that night. But then-  there had been a moment, when she had been sure, she was losing him, and for good and there was nothing she could do against it and she knew it, and there had been just that one thought, just that one word--  _no-_ \- all over again, until somebody-or something must have listened,and after that-everything was nebulous.

  
The room had suddenly become dreadfully cold. There had been a feeling like something essential had been torn out of her. She had felt like she was freezing to death, like all the life was dragged out of her. That must have been the moment when she had put on his blood- soaked coat, because it had been the first thing she could find. And then she must have passed out and probably collapsed straight onto him.  
And that was it. She had saved his life, somehow, and if this was a mircale, she is sure, God had nothing to do with it. And she can't tell why, but she is equally sure, she could never do this again.  
  
And to what end ? Does she really believe he will stick to his promise? Akinbode had asked her that and she had said yes. But now, she's not so sure. Simcoe had probably lied a million times before and with no qualm at all, it was just as likely that he would wake up and just as easily forget about the foolish girl and whatever empty promises he might have made to her.

  
But somehow, she believes he will keep his word. Last night's events had tied another knot into the strange bond that tied them together, even though he doesn't care for her, even though he is a man who usually wouldn't care to abide by an agreement- she believes he will keep his word. And all she has to do now, is to convince uncle Edmund of that.

  
But it doesn't help. She feels _guilty._

  
And perhaps that is why she doesn't walk right to the front door, but takes a wide circle around the main entrance and enters the property from behind, through the garden, in the same way she had left it the day before.

  
  
She hears the voices before she reaches the back door and stops her pace. A man and a woman are standing beneath an elder bush, in a fierce, whispered argument.

  
"What if he turns me in?" the man asks.

  
Marian recognizes the male voice. It had sounded just as heated when it had demanded to give the weapons, that were locked in the church, back to Setauket's men.

  
"But...Abe, he won't! Why would he do that now?"

  
The woman is no other than Anna Strong. Marian slips behind a knobby appletree and peers out to the pairing. They are facing each other, Anna with her arms crossed, chin raised up defiantly, the man across her, insistently grabbing her upper arm. He is young and rather short, his head beneath a woolen cap at eye height with Anna.

  
"Why wouldn't he? He's going to talk to André, right? And once he's gone, it can be all the same to him..."

  
"Exactly! Why would he care now? Besides, André has never listened to him before. He won't tell him anything. All he wants is to...to leave this all behind...leave this place..."

  
The man in farmer's clothes takes a sharp breath and looks at her intently.  
"...with _you_." he says quietly.

Anna does not respond but casts her eyes down. He makes as if to hold a hand to her face, but she suddenly looks up and her voice is shaky:  
"Abe...it's better that way. For... _all of us_. No one will ever know about Culper. I trust him. And you...you'll have to trust _me_. You' ll be safe.The _Ring_ will be safe. And a good man will be safe, too. He deserves to be..."

  
"You love him, then?" the man demands to know.

  
Anna looks at him and they stay silent for a long moment,their eyes locked.

  
"I love him, " she says at last. "enough...to save his life."

  
  
Marian feels a shiver run down her spine. She turns around slowly and makes her way back around the house.  
So Simcoe has been right all along, she thinks, bewildered. This place is not big enough for all the secrets and lies that live in it.

  
To be fair, her uncle is utterly relieved about her safe return, that is, until she asks him for a conversation in private.  
  
"You did _what_?"

He is just as shocked as she had feared, perhaps even more. Still, she tries her best to defend herself.

  
"I...I _had_ to. I ran into him when I was looking for little Thomas. He locked me in a tavern room. When he was shot, Akinbode asked me to look after his injuries. He...he told me, if he died, the rangers would raze Whitehall and kill everyone inside!"

  
That was not quite what he had said, but at this point, Marian feels, a little exaggeration might be helpful.

  
Hewlett sits back and watches her. He looks weary, but determined, like a man, who has finally resigned in his fate.

  
"So, Simcoe is not dead?" he asks slowly.

  
Marian drops her gaze. "No." She looks up at him again. "If he was, his men would be here already. Do you think you could shoot them all ?"

  
Her uncle looks at her thoughtfully, before he finally releases his breath with a sigh. "Very well. It's a great pity, it has been such a good shot. But...oh well, it seems like fate decided otherwise. _Again_. So you say, he is still unconscious then?"

  
Marian nods and he adds drily. "Good. This should give us some time, at least. We will leave tonight. Preparations have already been made. I'm sorry you won't get much rest, Marian, but you will certainly understand my need for haste."

  
"Leave? Where?" she asks.

  
"Well, first to New York, where I need to talk to my commanding officer, Major André. After that- " he makes a helpless gesture with both his hands, "Back to Scotland, with the first ship we can get."

  
"But," Marian looks at him, unbelieving. " You don't have to leave! I told you, Captain Simcoe gave me his word..."

  
"Marian," The Major sighs impatiently and when he speaks again, it is in the manner, one would speak to a very small and ignorant child. " Whatever Simcoe might have said or not said...it means nothing at all. He would tell any lie- to anyone, if it served his purpose. I...I thought, Anna had told you that much."

  
"She did. But..."

  
Hewlett sweeps her objections away with a determined gesture of his hand. "Trust me, Marian. You don't know the man like I do. He has no more honour in him than a snake. The only way to manage him is by _killing_ him. And if you can't kill him- and it seems I can't-you have to run from him. As far away as possible."  
  
He makes as if to get up. "No need for discussion about it. I already sent word to Major André that I will resign my post immediately. And as soon as we arrive in Scotland, Anna and I, we... we're going to get married."

  
His pale, concerned face lights up at the merry thought and his pinched mouth relaxes into a shy little smile.

  
"What about me?" Marian asks.

  
Her uncle looks at her, surprised.

  
"What do you mean? You will come with us, of course."

  
" _No_."

  
The word is out before she even knows, she had wanted to say it.

  
"No? What do you mean by "no"?"

  
Marian folds her arms like a sulky child. "I'm  not going back."

  
"But it won't be "going back", Marian. " Hewlett says soothingly. "It will be... a new start. For all of us. You have never been to Scotland, but it is where our family comes from. It is not like London. You will like it there..."

  
Marian doesn't know exactly, why this feels so wrong, but it does. Shouldn't she be happy he still wants her around? She is ungrateful and she knows it. But it can't be, it is wrong, she feels it, even if she can't explain why.

  
"It will be a new start for _you_." she says. " And I...I'm happy for you. But this is _your_ life. Not _mine_. I'm not coming with you."

  
He is clearly puzzled about that unexpected resistance from her side. No wonder, she is puzzled just as well.

  
"But Marian..." he starts, rather helplessly. "You'll _have_ to. You can't stay here. This is not my house, it belongs to Mr Woodhull,"

  
"I know," she says and then, with a sudden inspiration. " I will come with you to New York and stay there. Perhaps, Major André can find me a..."

  
"A what?" he interrupts her." A _husband_? Now, Marian,"

  
Hewlett snorts. "Major André is a busy man. He is head of intelligence...he is no... _matchmaker_. That is...ridiculous. And you cannot live in his house, either. He is a single gentleman, and one with a certain...reputation on top of that. " He clears his throat, embarassed.

  
Marian has no more intentions to get married than to dance naked around a camp fire. What she wanted to say was not "a husband" but " _a job_." Blessedly dowerless as she is, her chances on the marriage market are no bigger than those of a one- eyed scarecrow. But for her uncle, of course, marriage seems to be the only possible way for a woman to get by.

  
He suddenly frowns and narrows his eyes, when a terrible thought crosses his mind.  
"Marian...did Captain Simcoe, " he clearly doesn't know how to put it. "Did he... _compromise_ you in any way? Please tell me, _he_ didn't promise to marry you."

  
At first, Marian is just baffled. Then she feels like bursting into laughter. Just the thought of it is too absurd for words. But then, her uncle is not so wrong after all...although _compromised_ is not exactly the term she would have used...

  
"Of course not. " she says flatly. " Trust me, he is not interested in me at all. And defiantly she adds, "And I certainly don't wish to ever see him again."

  
"Good." Her uncle seems utterly relieved. He bends towards her and caringly pads her hand. "Don't worry, Marian. You have been through terrible times, I know that, but believe me, it won't be that way forever. You are so young... there is a whole world waiting for you out there. But right now, it is my duty to protect you, as I promised to your father...and it is indispensable for that, that you come with me-  with us..."  
  
Evidently, stubborness runs in the family. Marian desperately wishes it wasn't so. She doesn't want to hurt her uncle, and only a few days ago, she would have accepted his authority in all matters. But only a few days had changed so much.

  
"I've been through terrible times, yes," she replies coolly and pulls her hands away. "You promised to protect me, but you couldn't. You _can't_. And neither could my father. No one can. I have no need for this kind of protection. I couldn't be off worse if I just looked after myself. And that's what I will do from now on."

  
It hurts to see her uncle's face fall, to see the feelings of shame and compunction on it. Part of her wishes to take her words back, just to erase that terrible sad look from his eyes. But another part, a lesser part of her, knows she speaks the truth and is willing to go even farther, if he makes her to.

  
He does.  
His mouth opens and closes like a fish who tries to breathe ouside the water.

  
"I certainly deserve this kind of accusations." he says in a bitter voice. "And I can only say for my justification...that I always _tried_ to do the right thing. But perhaps...and especially in times as uncertain and dangerous as these...sometimes, this might not be _enough_."

"But that's the man I am. " Hewlett continues, more steadily now. "I can't be no other way, nor would I want that."  
Marian nods her head. But then, what is true for him is true for her as well...  
  
"What do you know about the family curse?" she suddenly hears herself asking.

  
"The family curse?" Hewlett looks confused. " What on earth makes you think of that now?"

  
She doesn't know that herself. It is a thought that has been floating around in her head all day. Not exactly a thought even, more a _feeling_. And when she had heard Anna's words just now, the feeling had suddenly been very strong.

  
"My father never wanted to talk to me about it." she says.

  
"Well..." Hewlett frowns. " I have all but forgotten about it, to be honest." He pauses and thinks for a moment. "It is nothing but superstitious nonsense, in any case. Your father didn't believe in it either. That is, _until_...but we have both always been men of the age of enlightenment...of science..."

  
"But what does it say? Do you know?" Marian insists.

  
Her uncle looks at her, suddenly attentive. "It is about...healing power. "he says slowly, thoughtfully. " It is said to be passed from father to eldest son...so, in that case, to your father, not to me. Well, your father certainly had it. Our father before him did, too."

  
"But... that's a good thing, isn't it?" she asks.

  
"Oh yes. It is. It should be. But that's not what the curse is about. Or at least, not all of it."

  
He frowns and shakes his head. " As I said, I do not believe in these kind of...things. But if I remember it right, it says, that it gives you the power to save the lives of... unworthy people...and inevitably brings death to the ones you love..."

  
Marian stays silent for a long moment. "Like my mother" she whispers at last.

  
"And my mother before her...that is, if you believe in it. Women die in childbed a lot, sad as it is. People always tend to look for some- supernatural explanation if a beloved one dies...that's only natural, I guess... but it doesn't make it true. "  
  
Hewlett pauses uneasily and wipes his forehead.

  
"But that's what it is about. The curse, I mean. My grandfather,back in Scotland, was the first one who had been cursed. By a woman, who was burnt for witchcraft. Those were dark times...it was when Chromwell tried to invade Scotland and King Charles was executed- there was a lot of fear and hatred amongst the people and neighbour fought against neighbour...not unlike here right now, when I think about it...many poor souls have been judged for "witchcraft" then...that woman though, she was the last one who was actually burnt. And before she died, for whatever reason, she put that curse on my grandfather. And it was said to be passed on from father to eldest son."

  
Marian sits very still, thinking rapidly. Her uncle did in fact know way more about the curse than he had admitted earlier.

  
 "But my father had no eldest son. He died shortly after my mother." she says at last.

  
"True." Hewlett says, thoughtfully. " He had only you..."

  
"But any curse can be broken, right?" Marian says at last. "Do you know anything about that, too?"

  
Her uncle stays silent for a long moment and watches her, like he really saw her for the very first time.

  
 "It says, the curse can be broken if you...bring someone back to life from the verge of dead..." he says at last, very quietly. "Someone you _hate_... and _love_... _at the same time_."

  
Marian stares at him, wide- eyed. Suddenly, everything makes sense to her. How strange all this was. How _terrifying_ strange.

  
Hewlett watches her with evident concern.

  
"Marian, " he says hoarsely. " I do not say I believe in this nonsense, I _don't_ -  and neither should you...but if I did...I would definitely say, this is one more reason to run away as far as you can...don't you agree?"

  
And when she doesn't reply, "You cannot want to bind your fate to this man, you _can't_. I won't let that happen, Marian."

  
Marian stares at him, blankly. Of course, she doesn't want that. She had wanted none of all this, but it had happened to her any way. And none of it- for better or for worse- could be undone now.

  
  
"What will you tell him?" Marian doesn't recognize her own voice, it feels like she was reading from a script.

  
"Tell who?"

  
"Major André." she hears herself saying. "About the...attack. And everything. Why you are resigning your post."

  
Major Hewlett is clearly confused. "I...I won't tell him anything. There is no use..."

  
"I believe so. Surely you don't want him to know about Mr Brewster? Or why he was here at all ?"

  
Marian is sure, she has never seen anything more terrifying than the shocked look on her uncle's face. It is much worse than if he had just slapped her. She is so disgusted by herself that she feels her stomach clench. This is not me, she thinks. Don't you see, I could never, ever do that? Why do you make me do that ?

  
"I will not go with you to Scotland." she says with that cool, alien voice that has somehow replaced her own. "You will convince Major André about it. And in reverse, I won't mention Mr Brewster's name. Or anything about... _rebel spies_."

  
She can't look him in the eyes, can't bear the painfull look of borderless disappointment in it.

  
"You're better off without me." she says and she means it. " You and Anna. I' m so sorry. I...I really think, I need that bath, now."

  
Hewlett says nothing. He looks so hurt and lost that she wants to hug and kiss him and tell him everything will be alright. But that would be a lie. And she knows, it is certainly not her consolation he needs now. She rushes out of the room and calls for Aberdeen.

  
  
The bath is wonderfully warm and comforting, still it takes a long time until she feels the frightening cold inside her ease, and a ton of scented soap could probably never make her feel clean again.

  
She hopes, she doesn't have to talk to anyone at the house before their departure. But when she returns to her room, she finds Anna  waiting there, asking her very coolly and politely, if she needed any help with her luggage. Evidently, she has been talking to her uncle already.

  
Marian declines and the two women look at each other for a long moment.

  
"I'm glad to hear about your marriage" Marian says at last. Anna nods but says nothing, her big, dark eyes are as deep and unreadable as a pond at night.

"As for your dress..."

"Nevermind." Anna says harshly. " I don't think I would ever want to wear it again."

  
Marian nods. "I'm sorry." she says softly. Anna looks at her, unmoved. "I pity you." she says at last and without warmth. "I really do. But I don't think, I could ever understand you." She turns on her heels and walks away.

  
  
As much as it hurts, it doesn't come unexpected, unlike her talk to Nettie later, who tells her in her own sullen way, eyes cast down, that she would like to be dismissed from her service and join Major Hewlett and his wife- to- be on their way to Scotland, since "Miss Anna doesn't have a maid to look after her and might need me".

  
"But...I need you, too." Marian says awkwardly.

  
"Well," Nettie replies, still avoiding her gaze. " You will have your own household once you're married. You don't need me as much as she does."

  
"Fine," Marian finds herself saying. I said, I didn't need anyone. It is only fair that no one seems to need me either.

  
  
When the carriage is ready, Marian is so tired that she hopes she can sleep all the way to New York. Her uncle and Anna look very grave, but she can't seem to pity them too much. At least, they have each other. What does she have except nothing to lose? It seems, she is back again where she started from.

  
Edmund Hewlett, despite all his misfortune, is a lucky man. Even in his darkest hours, he has always had Anna as the brightest of all stars to guide him. Wasn't that the best things about stars anyway? That one could only see them when it was dark?

  
But what if your own star was dark, too ?  Marian wonders. Where could it possibly guide you then but only deeper and deeper into utter, unending darkness?

  
It is painfully clear,she is alone and thus, would have to find her way by herself.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	9. The End is the Beginning is the End

It is the river, of course. It always is.

He walks along the riverside, his feet bare, a rather pathetic, home-made wooden ship in his hands which he sails through the waves, highly focused. He is back home in Exeter, but in his mind, the river is not the Exe but the mighty St Lawrence stream in Quebec, Canada, and he is not nine- years old John, but his father, captured by the French and carried up the river.

His captors do not know who he is, do not know about his Navy captaincy and take only as much interest in him, as to prevent him from escape. He is not interested in them either. He watches the river, seemingly passive, but inwardly registering everything on their route. He is an excellent observer, undistracted by hunger and cold, the painful moans of his injured fellow captives or the snide remarks of his captors. He misses out on nothing, imprints an invisible map in his mind, in order to draw it for his General later, which would enable him to lead the famous attack on the Canadian Capital, he would not live to see.

Little John is just as focused, just as eager. He notices everything on his way along the beach, every stone, every tuft of grass, every seabird crossing his way. He is not to be distracted, not by his sore feet, who are beginning to ache from the cold water, not by the thought of missing breakfast in the silent sadness which always sits in his father's empty chair at the table now, since he had died a year ago- and most of all not by his annoying younger brother Percy, who inevitably follows him wherever he goes and cries for his attention.

He is Navy Captain John Simcoe in the Canadian war, on the way to his greatest triumph.

Twenty years later, John watches his ignorant childhood dream-self on its lonely path, oblivious of all around but his foolish, self-imposed task, not noticing his brother's little footsteps and whining behind him had stopped for a while now, even glad he was no longer bothering him but eventually found something else to occupy himself with.

Turn around, he implores the boy with the stupid toy ship. _Turn around_!

It is useless and he knows it. He has had this dream so many times before. It always ends the same. He would turn around eventually, but always too late. Percy would be gone- not home, or to play somewhere else, but to his cold, wet grave in the river.

He would never know how it could have come to this. Percy had been only four and he couldn't swim. It had been early spring, the water dreadfully cold. What would have made him walk into the river? He must have seen something, a bird, a fish, a sunken treasure, who knows? But still. Whatever it was, it didn't matter in the end. His death was on _him_. He could blame no one else for it.

And neither did his mother. John feels tears stream down his face, as cold as the river itself. As always, he weeps without a sound- and to no avail. His mother looks down on her first and fiercest child, the only one of four which is left now. Her eyes speak to him as clear as words: " _I wish it had been you_." He had not cried then. He had never cried ever after.

But wait. This time, something is different. The boy suddenly stops walking, startled, as if something brought him to a halt. John feels his heart pounding in wild joy. Yes! It had worked at last. He had heard him ! _Turn around_!

He turns his head. The beach behind him his empty.

"John!" His brother's voice sounds more cheerful than usual. And it is not coming from the beach behind him. It is calling out for him from the river. The _other_ side of the river as he notices with astounishment and when he turns his head, he can see him now, too.

The river is not near as wide as it had seemed to him when he was a child. Merely a rivulet. And it is no grey day of March any longer, no, it must be summer. The water on his bare feet is pleasantly warm. Bright rays of sunlight sparkle on the silent surface of the river. The whole atmosphere is filled with a deep, delightful peace.

"Yes," his brother calls at him, his laughter as clear as a bell, the most beautiful sound he has ever heard. He jumps up and down, his fair hair shimmering golden in the sunlight. "Come over here! No worries, it's shallow." He hears himself laugh in relief at his silly fears. Of course it is! Everyone could see that. There's no dangers waiting for him, not here in this wonderful place. He begins to walk into the warm waves. His brother smiles at him encouragingly and waves him closer with his small hands. "At last," he cheers. "You've come for me at last!"

"Of course," John blinks away tears of joy. "Of course, I'm coming!" he cries. "Don't go away."

His brother laughs at him mildly. "Go away? We won't go away, John. We're always here. We have been waiting _so long_!"

The water is almost up his belly now, but he can't seem to get any closer. I think, I'll have to swim after all, he thinks, but rather unperturbed. What would it matter? He looks down at the river around him. The water is warm and smooth as glass and it could only be a few paces...then his brother's words sink in. "We...?"

He looks back up to him and sees he is no longer alone now. His parents are standing left and right behind him, their hands on his soulders, their smiles warm and welcoming. "I'm so proud of you, son," his father says in his calm, stern voice. "You have come a long way. Now we can be together again."

His heart seems to brim with love and joy. His feet lose ground and he starts to swim. His movements are strong and vibrant. The shore is coming closer and closer now.

" _No_!" Another voice suddenly calls behind him, from the other side of the river. " _Come back_!" This new voice is not nearly as pleasant as the ones from his beloved family. He looks back over his shoulder and sees a single, small shape standing at the beach. A woman. He doesn't recognize her, yet something in the way her tousled blonde hair blows in the wind looks faintly familiar.

The wind ...a second ago there had been no wind at all. Now he notices, it is quite a _storm_. It lashes the waves around him and makes them slap into his face. And the water is no longer warm. His clothes threaten to drag him down and he has to struggle to stay above the surface. His parents and his brother are still standing at the shore, their smiles unwavering, seemingly unaware of his troubles.

"Come to us, John!" his mother lures him. "We'll be together again." He treads water and desperately tries to get back to swimming. "I'm trying!" he yells and swallows a cold gulp of salty water. "Don't leave! I love you!"

"And I love you." says his mother with Annas voice. No, it _is_ Anna, he realizes. It is Anna, just like she had been standing there by the window before...before... The expression on her face is unreadable. "I always have. Didn't you know? Just...just let go now."

But the unnerving voice from the other side of the river keeps yelling at him. " _No_! You can't go there. You _can't_! You will _die_ there, don't you see that? You must come back... _come back to me_...now!"

Die? Now that's ridiculous. But he feels that his movements grow weak. Despite his efforts, the cruel waves keep pushing him back from the blessed shore, back to the place he wants to leave, back to pain and agony. The shades of his family begin to fade. Anna shrugs her shoulders and turns around, walks away and dissolves into nothingness. "No," he cries helplessly. " _No_!" as the relentless tide carries him back to the land of the living and suffering.

He recognizes the girl at the beach now. She grabs his arms and pulls his slack body out of the river. He is too weak to fight. Shivering cold. He looks at her, frowning. "What are you doing in my dream?" he asks. She doesn't reply. She just holds him until the terrible cold slowly fades.

Replaced by a stinging pain in his chest. A vague feeling of regret. Then merciful oblivion.

 

 

In the evening, he is able to sit up and drink some water, brought to him by a visibly relieved Akinbode. He is thoroughly weak and every part of his body is stiff and hurting, but that might as well be thanks to his"bed" on the hard tavern table.

"How long?" he asks. "Two days, sir. Well, two and a half, now. I'm sorry for the...discomfort, but we thought it best, not to move you too much."

He shrugs and looks down at the bandages around his chest and shoulder. He has been in more "uncomfortable" places before.

"Who shot me?"

Akinbode drops his gaze and shakes his head. "We don't know for sure, Captain. We could find no one. And...we were worried for your safety, so I decided to retreat." He looks up at this Captain. "It must have been Rogers. Nothing else would make sense."

He nods his head. "So he came back for me." he says slowly- and oddly satisfied. "Help me up. I want to go to my room."

Akinbode opens his mouth as if to protest, but then shuts it again. They make it slowly up the stairs to his own room, accompanied by the heartily welcomes from his men, who are obviously breathing sighs of relief to see their Captain up on his feet again.

He is exhausted enough to go right back to sleep, but at the request of a very insistent Akinbode agrees to drink a glass of a bitter smelling potion. It tastes even worse than it smells, and he twists his face in disgust. "What the hell is that?" he coughs, suppressing the urge to throw up. "If the bullet couldn't kill me, this surely will."

Akinbode frowns and darts him a reproachful glance. "Miss Fane made it for you."

"Ah," he says with a strained smile. "I knew she would try to kill me after all."

Evidently, his sarcasm is lost to his Second. Akinbode looks rather indignant. "That's not true, Captain. It was _her_ , who pulled that bullet out. She saved your _life_..." He raises his eyebrows at Akinbode's ardent speech. "I understand." he cuts him off. " Why is she not here then to make me drink it, I wonder?"

"Miss Fane asked me to allow her return to Whitehall." Akinbode replies and meets his eyes, defiantly. "And I let her go. She was no...no prisoner, was she? I'm sorry if I...misinterpreted your orders, sir, but I could see no harm..."

He waves his hand. "It's alright." He feels very tired again, and very warm inside, not unpleasant in fact, and certainly due to the obnoxious medicine. "I want to know what's going on at Whitehall." he murmurs and sinks back against his pillows. "What Hewlett plans...but unofficially. See what you can find out. But- be careful. Rogers may still be somewhere out there- "

"Yes sir. " Akinbode looks as if he wanted to say something else but he feels that sleep overcomes him again. "Keep the men in attendance. We'll talk tomorrow."

His eyes fall close. And this time, his sleep is deep and dreamless.

 

In the next morning, he notices with satisfaction that he feels well enough again to join his men in the tavern parlor for a rich breakfast.

He needs to regain his strength, and fast. He had suffered a setback- Rogers unforeseen return and his well-aimed shot had given Hewlett a day's grace- but the battle was far from over. It would never be, as long as they both lived and he knows he would win in the end. _Because he is willing to do things Hewlett would never do_. It takes more than a bullet to kill him.

It had been a close thing this time though and he is the first to admit that. He _could_ have died and honestly, he had thought he would. And this- and only this- had been the reason why he had made that promise to Miss Fane.

" _If I save your life, you will leave my uncle alone_." he hears her insistent words echo in his head. " _Swear it to me_."

And that he had. He remembers the look on her face when she had taken his head in her hands to make him look her in the eyes. At this moment, at the abyss of death, when her eyes had seemed to be the only thing that was still holding him, he would have sworn anything to her- that he would spare Hewlett's life, or anyones, that he loved her and would do anything for her and many foolish things more.

How binding could any kind of oath be under circumstances like these? And what's more, what was it worth compared to the oaths he had sworn before, to King and Crown, or to himself ?

And still, she had believed him. He knows she had, he had seen it in her eyes. For a moment, he had seen a picture of himself in them, or rather, of the man she wanted him to be. And for a moment he had wanted to be that man.

 

He is at his third bowl of broth, when Akinbode enters the tavern, visibly disturbed. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and gestures at him to follow him up to his room. Where he seats himself and looks at him expectantly. "Well ?"

Akinbode looks rather confused. "They're gone, sir."

He raises his eyebrows. "Gone? You mean, Hewlett has left Whitehall? When ?"

"Yesterday... I'm not sure, when. They told me, Magistrate Woodhull was not home...or would not talk to me, I don't know. But...I managed to talk to Aberdeen. She's a maid at his house, I've known her for some time. And she told me, they'd left for New York. Like head over heels. She was pretty surprised herself. "

"New York, " he replies blankly. "So he ran like a headless chicken. And to Major André, no doubt. I wonder, what could he possibly tell him? Nothing about his rebel friends, I should think."

"No sir, " Akinbode clears his throat. "Aberdeen says, he won't come back to Setauket. He plans to resign his post here and go back to Scotland with...Miss Anna."

"Really?"  Well, this is...unexpected. But then, what else would there be left for him to do? A dishonourable discharge was his only chance of escape. Well, that was what he had wanted for a long time, right? He could have been pleased. But this was, before he had known of Hewlett's collaboration with the enemy...

"Well...I assume, Major André has asked for my report as well?" he asks.

"Indeed, sir. A messenger arrived early this morning. The major awaits your visit in New York, as soon as possible."

He nods his head, thoughtfully. He would have preferred to hand Rogers' ugly, one-eyed head over to him on a plate, but at least he can provide with the information, that he is the wanted Culper, now.

"What will you tell him? About Hewlett, I mean?" his second asks him and his voice sounds uneasy. "Will you tell him about your...suspicion?"

"Suspicion?" he echoes acidly. " It is hardly just a suspicion, isn't it? Hardly just a... coincidence, that we have been ambushed by rebels twice, when only Hewlett knew where we were?"

"But we have no evidence...as long as we don't have Rogers." Akinbode has clearly taken on an unnerving pleasure in opposition lately.

"Evidence shouldn't be hard to provide? There must be more traitors, or at least...confidants to the matter. We can question Hewlett's men one by one, we can talk to this...conniving magistrate, let's see if he dares not to let _me_ in, we can raze this town stone by stone if necessary-"

Akinbode says nothing. He just stands there, unwavering, his eyes burning with ill-concealed accusation. It has never been hard for him to read his second's mind. Perhaps, this might even be the reason why he likes him so much. Not right now, though.

"I haven't forgotten what I promised Miss Fane, if that's what the look on your face is about." he says drily. He lifts his hands and opens his eyes wide. "But I thought I was going to _die_..."

"You were." his second replies sternly. "We all believed, you would."

"And yet here we are. And I must admit, I feel rather well for a dead man."

He sighs. " And all thanks to her ministrations, I'm sure. Very well then... I will keep my... _suspicion_ to myself, until I get Rogers out of his rabbit hole. And our dear oyster major better prays he is back to his backwater place in Scotland by then." He frowns. "At least I'll be rid of women begging me for his pathetic life all the time then," he adds dryly. "It had begun to become quite a bad habit lately."

He can literally hear the weight fall from his second's heart. Akinbode allows himself a faint smile of relief, before he clears his throat again. "Ahem, for Miss Marian...Aberdeen says, she won't go with them. To Scotland, I mean."

He raises his eyebrows. "No? What else would she do then ? Go back to England?"

Akinbode gives him a look he cannot quite read. "No, sir. Aberdeen says, she is to stay in New York. It seems, that Hewlett plans to ask Major André to find her... a husband."

So Hewlett wanted to get rid of her like she were a drag who might spoil his honeymoon with Anna? After she had practically saved his tight rebel- friendly arse ? How despicable, but how typical for the man he knows. Something like an involuntary wave of compassion for Marian washes over him. But he says nothing. If his second had expected any kind of significant reaction to his words, he would find himself disappointed. He is sure, his face shows nothing but his usual blank stare.

Akinbode shrugs his shoulders. "But Aberdeen thinks this exceptionally unlikely since Miss Marian has no dowry at all..." he adds incidentally.

 

He thinks it unlikely also.

Especially in times of war, with- at best- infrequent payment by the army, most regimentals would not be keen on marrying a dowerless girl, no matter how appealing she might be and frankly, Miss Fane isn't exactly the paragon of a perfect wife, willful and unruly as she is. And even though she clearly has something that might appeal to the baser instincts of men- as it had happened to him- an officer wouldn't just marry when and whom he liked. There were _rules_. The military career comes first and then, later, some well-off heiress to add the fortune to the fame. But a girl with nothing but a worthless title and a dishonourably discharged uncle? No way.

A civilian, some wealthy merchant perhaps, a widower, old and indifferent towards anything about his bride-to-be except for her youth and a pretty face. Expecting some cheerful little deadhead who would flutter around him and brighten his remaining days with charming chitchat and sweet vanities. If so, he pities the man already. He had no idea that he'd get way more than he bargained for.

And _she_ \- she would fade away like a neglected flower, lose all her fire over time and turn into one of the many exchangeable, sophisticated, well-mannered ladies of society... No, not by any stretch of imagination this could ever be a possible scenario.

Well, it's not that he really cares, but... to imagine her in someone else's bed- it just doesn't feel right. After all- he had found her _first_.

And she had not left him in peace ever since. Even in what should have been his last, peaceful moments on his deathbed, it had been _her_ voice calling him back, a constant stream of adjurations, unnerving yet impossible to ignore, like the complaints of a nagging _wife_ -

Well.

If she absolutely had to marry, it could as well be him. No, it could, in fact, _only_ be him. But would it even be fair to impose his demons on her? She certainly had her own. But then, was it not possible, that two people, lost in their own personal hells, would be able to leave the past behind and walk into brighter places, if only they were together?

 

He looks up to Akinbode and meets his gaze. "So...she saved my life, you say?" he asks thoughtfully.

"Yes, sir." Akinbode replies solemnly.

Ah well...alright.

It is not quite the convenient time and his godfather likely won't give his consent either. But he is a grown man and makes his own decisions. She could live at Whitehall after all, he would give her a home at the very place her uncle had not been able to keep- that is, once André had committed Hewlett's post to him. He feels how he warms up to the thought more and more by the moment. It could work. They could be happy.  
  
  


And even if not...he knows her for- what? a week? and it had, without doubt, been the most curious and exhausting week of his life. How much worse could it possibly get ?

He releases his breath with a sigh and gives his second a somewhat incredulous smile. "Alright, Akinbode," he says airily. " We'll leave for New York tomorrow. Major André awaits my report and- as it seems- the time has come for me to become a married man."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is practically the end of part one of this story.  
> All's well that ends well? Of course, not. Although I'm somewhat tempted to just leave at that, I guess I won't- if only to do my bit to keep this fandom alive now that the show is over.  
> Anyways, the curse has been broken and even though it will still be mentioned, there will be no further supernatural elements in the plot itself.  
> Part two would lead us to New York and Philadelphia, with appearances of John André, Peggy Shippen, Abigail and our favourite major tightpants Ben Tallmadge, more trials and tribulations, more logic errors and historical inaccuracy plus the dubious sex scenes that made me rate this fic M in the first place...  
> At this point, I want to thank everyone who has taken the time to read this or even be so kind to leave Kudos and comments, it really means a lot !  
> And most of all, I'm so happy to have found all those incredibly talented writers and super-adorable people here when I was really just googleing for Simcoe pics :P


	10. The Puppetmaster

**Part 2**

 

There are not many things in this world that could take Major John André by surprise any longer.

Not since he is back in New York, having had to leave Philadelphia when it was recaptured by the Continental army.

So, he had to retreat but he did not return empty-handed. Upon his departure, he had taken the opportunity to take various valuable items from the place where he was quartered with him ( _stole_ them, some might say, while he himself prefers the term "secured", after all, who knew what this army of uneducated savages would do to Mr Franklin's precious inventions ? ) and he decorated his new house with them, if only to make it feel like the home he had.

However,they are a poor substitute for what he had to leave behind.

 

On the surface, he is a man who has it all.

In his early thirties he is the head of British intelligence and the mastermind behind all spying activities on behalf of their King.

_He_ doesn't have to chase after glory on a dirty, blood- soaked battlefield, no, he can spend his time amongst the city's high society, a shining appearance at their balls and dinner parties, and still the fate of this country lies in his hands as well as in any general's.

Medium-sized, well-built, handsome and charming ( perhaps a gift from his Huguenot parents ) he is also gifted in many arts. He paints portraits, writes verse, plays various instruments and cuts beautiful little silhouette pictures.

As a conversational partner, you would find him well-mannered, quick witted and humorous.

All in all, he clearly is a man you are not likely to forget once you've met him.

Society loves him, his subordinates worship him, his superiors cherish him, women adore him; even his enemies admire him.

It is beyond anyone's understanding, why he would appear so thoroughly unhappy lately.

_And how would they know_? Most people had made sacrifices to this war, true. But he- _he_ sacrificed his very heart, and voluntarily so. Didn't waste a thought on it, when the opportunity arose. Not on her, nor on the nagging pain of loneliness he inflicted on himself.

But he feels it now. Oh, _how_ he feels it.

And there is no cure for it, only the questionable ease by drinking. And so he drinks. Practically nonstop.

His artistic career reduced to drawing one portrait, one face, all over again. He seems to do nothing else.

 

André is sitting at his desk, a bottle of sherry and a glass next to him, drawing yet another sketch of Peggy, when Abigail comes in and tells him, Major Hewlett and his niece have come to speak to him.

He thanks her and looks back at the sketch he has been working on. He frowns. He is never quite satisfied with the result. It is visibly _her_ , yes, but something always seems to be amiss.

Sometimes he is terrified, that the more he keeps drawing her, the more her beloved features would change until in the end, he wouldn't be able to recognize or remember her at all.

 

The small, neat man who walks into his office is merely a casual acquaintance. He has no idea what brings him here, and to tell the truth, no interest in it, either. But he stands up politely and waves his hand in a welcoming gesture.

"Edward," he says in feigned joyiality. "What a pleasure to meet you again. What can I do for you?"

The other major presses his lips to a narrow, disapproving line. " _Edmund_ ," he corrects him in a flat voice. " And I'm afraid, it is business rather than pleasure that brings me here."

_Edward- Edmund-_ an insignificant lapse, yet one that would have never happened in earlier days, when he could pride himself on knowing every single man ( or woman ) in his sphere of activity by name, rank and complete background story, but this ambition had long left him along with so many others.

He offers the man a seat and a drink and hears to his astounishment that Hewlett wishes to resign his post in order to leave for his homeland Scotland, with his American bride-to-be.

Well, he has always thought poorly of the "oyster major", as he has to admit, but it is rather uncommon to resign from a profitable post just for the sake of marriage. There must be more to it, he decides, but the reserved air of the stiff little man across him tells him clearly, he won't find out about it from the man himself.

Hewlett abandons his cool restraint only so much as to ask him to pass over his command to his second in command, Captain Wakefield.

André represses an amused smile. He can well imagine that Hewlett is terrified by the idea, he might give it to his archenemy, Simcoe. Truthfully, he can assure him, that he has no such plans.

Evidently relieved, Hewlett sits back and finally takes the sherry glass and empties it with one, determined gulp. André himself already had three.

He is a little disappointed, that Hewlett wouldn't introduced his wife- to- be to him, for certainly she must be quite appealing. Heartbroken or not, he is not a man who would ever miss the chance to meet a beautiful woman. But then he remembers, she is the former mistress of his maid Abigail, and has certainly taken the chance to talk to her right now.

But the oyster major is not yet done.

He hesitates, uncomfortably shifting in his chair, until he finally comes out with another request. It concerns his niece, Marian. As it seems, the girl refuses to go to Scotland with them and has set her mind on staying in the colonies. Unfortunately, Hewlett is not able to provide her with a dowry, so if he might kindly consider to introduce her into society and -perhaps even find her a good husband among his friends -?

André is taken aback and amused at the same time. Especially since Hewlett himself seems to be all but happy about his request. He feels his contempt for the other major grow. What kind of man- a military man on top of that- would allow not only one, but _two_ women to act up with him? It is probably for the best that Hewlett resigns his command if he isn't even able to keep the _women_ in his charge under control.

But now his curiosity is piqued. He promises nothing until he has the chance to talk to the girl himself, and alone. Perhaps she can fill the gaps in Hewlett's report.

Hewlett nods his consent and after a brief and, on both sides not very sincere, exchange of farewell phrases, retreats and sends his niece to Andrés office.

 

When he first sees her, it hits him like a shock.

Not because she would be anything like a stunning beauty; she is quite tall for a girl and too thin, her dress has seen better days and her hair apparantly never a decent coiffeur ( which makes him instantly think of Peggy and her impeccable, exceptional hairstyles ) but somehow,something about her face haunts him.

He could swear, he has seen her before. But how could that be?

He offers her a seat and a drink and, unlike her uncle, she seems to be less reluctant to the simple gratifications of alcohol, for she empties the glass of sherry rather quickly and doesn't decline another.

"Miss-Hewlett?" he starts politely.

"Fane." she corrects him quickly. "It was my mother's name."

 

Of course. _Of course_. He remembers now. It's been so long ago.

He must have been a mere boy, hardly older than ten or eleven. It was at one of those exclusive summer picnics, when the high society of London withdrawed to the countryside and played opulent parodies of country life on their estates.

He doesn't remember why he was there, but his parents were, if not of noble lineage,certainly well-off enough to receive invitations as such from time to time.

Said, he was just a schoolboy, overwhelmed and likewise enchanted and disgusted by the ostentious display of affluence around him-but then, there was this woman, or rather this girl, because she must have been no older than the girl before him now.

He can clearly see her before his mind's eye as if it were yesterday- delicate and slender, fair skin and hair, in a rather plain white robe, her small, heart-shaped face of an ethereal, almost unearthly beauty,like an angel's.

He remembers her standing there, and she had looked so utterly alone, lost and out of place in her purity amongst all those frilly, artificial women around her, like a white swan in a herd of cackling chicken.

When he thinks about it now, he believes, he can feel her gaze upon him again. _Help me_ , her big, strangely bewitching eyes seemed to call out to him wordlessly. _I don't belong here_.

It was then that he felt a sudden pang in his chest unlike anything he had known before.

It was foolish, of course, he was just a boy, who knew nothing of life, or love, as it was. Eventually, she turned around, walked away and disappeared into the crowd. He never saw her again. But he asked his father about her later and he told him her name.

_Elenore Fane_. He must have thought about her for a long time afterwards. Made his first attempts in poetry and drawing inspired by her sweet, haunted face.

But then he went back to school,to university and the army later, there were other women ( many ), and he must admit, he had completely forgotten about her. Until now.

 

So this girl, Hewlett's niece, is her daughter. How small the world is.

She has her eyes, no doubt about it. The same unusual light hair colour and the same heart-shaped face, although with a defiant jaw line her mother didn't have.

Headstrong, apparantly, not exactly a quality he prefers in a woman.

Apart from this, well- when her mother was a shining jewel, this girl is merely a poor copy, a rough gem. He might once have fancied the idea to buy her new dresses and make her the sparkling star her mother was. But that would have been before his mind was thoroughly occupied by someone else.

 

Still, he finds himself smiling at her with warmth.

"Miss Fane,"he says. "I knew your mother."

The girl raises a surprised brow and he quickly adds: "Or rather, I met her once. A long time ago, back in England. I never learned what has become of her."

"She's dead," the girl replies in a sad tone. "It's been fifteen years now. She died giving birth to my brother, who followed her soon after. I can hardly remember her."

André feels his shoulders slouching. Of course she _must_ be dead. Women like her were not meant to walk in earthly fields. Still he feels that anew loss add to his overall melancholy. This girl has suffered loss as well. It is a matter of honor that he should help her if he can.

"I am deeply sorry to hear that," he says sympathetically. "She was a woman of outstanding beauty. And kindness, of that I'm sure."

"I suppose she was," the girl replies, rather resigned. "I hear that a lot."

"Well," he says and puts on the kind of smile that has opened the hearts (and bedchamber's doors )of so many other women to him before. "Since we are effectively acquainted, I should feel obliged to offer my help with your personal matters, Miss Fane. Your uncle implied earlier, that it was your wish to be introduced into New York's society- in order to marry well, if I may put it like that. There's certainly the- issue of your dowry- or rather the absence of it- but I'm confident I could-"

"No." the girl interrupts him resolutely- and quite uncouth.

He puts his glass down and raises his eyebrows. "No? I apologize, if I should have mistaken your uncle's words, but-"

"You have not," she quickly clarifies. "It's what my uncle thinks I want. But he is wrong. I do not wish to get married. _At all_."

Now,that is interesting. Unheard-of. After all, what could a woman's destination in this world be if not marriage and motherhood? This precept is true for a noble lady as well as for a simple farmwomen-unless- unless the girl in front of him is not as innocent as she looks. Perhaps she had already given her heart to a man who wouldn't- or couldn't- marry her- a married man?

"A quite- unusual attitude," he finds himself asking with mild curiosity. "I can only guess, your heart is already-taken _otherwise_ , then?"

"No." she replies in a determined tone. And a little too quickly.

He sits back and folds his arms, looking at her in curious anticipation. "Then what is it you wish, Miss Fane? Or rather, what could I help provide you with?"

She holds his gaze and says in a steady voice: "I was hoping you could help provide me with-a _job_."

Whatever he might have expected, it is certainly not this. He feels the corners of his mouth crawl up in a rather patronizing smile.

"A job, is it? You mean to say, you wish to-work? " "Yes." "Well-I must say, this comes as quite a surprise for me." He reaches for the decanter, pulls himself another drink, then offers the same to her. This time, she declines, albeit regretfully.

"I'm afraid, I can't help you there, Miss Fane," he says at last. " I cannot imagine you would like to offer your service at my household, besides I already have a maid. And as an unmarried gentlemen with no children, I couldn't think of any- appropriate employment at my house, especially for a lady of your- circles."

Miss Fane furrows her dark brows to a frown. "That's not what I meant," she replies a trifle irritably. "I have medical knowledge. All I'm asking of you- since I know no one in York City - is to help me find an employment in an infirmary."

André raises his brows in surprise. "An infirmary? Truly? Well, that's something I really wouldn't recommend, Miss Fane. A bit of medical knowledge is certainly well and good but infirmaries are mere breeding grounds for all kind of horrible diseases. Certainly not the right place for a lady apart from charitable visits now and then- besides, can you provide with any references?"

"None. Although-" Miss Fane falters and bites her lower lip.

"As it happens, I have recently nursed a man with a gunshot wound," she says at last. "Captain Simcoe- he is in your service, I believe-and he might certify my- abilities."

"Simcoe? " André repeats, surprised. "How do you know Captain Simcoe, Miss Fane?"

The girl takes a moment to reply. "When I arrived in Oyster Bay only two weeks ago," she starts. " On our way to Setauket, my maid and I were ambushed by rebel outlaws in the woods. They killed the soldiers my uncle sent to accompany us and would have killed us too-or worse- it was only by a happy coincidence, that Captain Simcoe and his Queens Rangers were around-they rescued us and brought us home safely. Then later, in Setauket, when Captain Simcoe was shot by an unknown sniper- I was able to return the favour and nurse him back to health."

She pauses and looks up at him from her disturbing, bright eyes. "I am no lady, sir, or at least- no delicate flower that must be kept away from the horrors of the war, I've seen enough of it already to know it spares no one and likewise, I believe, I can do my bit to be of use in it as well as any man."

 

André watches her thoughtfully, his chin rested on a stretched palm. He didn't know about that ambush or the attack on his Captain. Hewlett had not bothered to tell him about it. What else had he kept from him, he wonders?

But then, a sudden inspiration crosses his mind. An idea. Yet unformed , but it is there.

It's true, a woman can serve the cause as well as any man, but not necessarily only in a field hospital. Didn't people tend to talk to a woman rather than to a man? Especially other women?Because women are supposed to be the more attentive listeners. And they are attentive observers, too, able to notice the small-seemingly trivial -things, which might prove to be anything but unimportant in the end-

Well, this could be just the thing.

His current correspondance with Peggy is as infrequent as dissatisfactory.

He is always forced to read between her perfectly polite, superficial lines to find the slightest hint of her true feelings, and it is never enough. Besides, the information he has received from her traitorous fiancé through her are rather insufficient so far, and he knows nothing about her personal life except for an ominous wedding date- something he wants to prevent at all costs but cannot until he has succeeded in making Arnold switch sides-

Sure, occasionally he has Abigail travelling there and back, but this, _this_ could be the far better solution.

Besides, he needs Abigail here-not only because he has come accustomed to her service and her calm, soothing presence, but also ( and that is something he is only half aware of ) because she is living proof that he is still capable of humanity and kindness. After all, isn't she happy here- and especially since he arranged it so that her son could be with her, too?

But he could send Miss Fane to Philadelphia. A blank page, an unmarried woman beyond suspicion in enemy territory,one who owed him everything and would report directly to him on top of that- there were countless possiblities-

 

"You see me totally shaken, Miss Fane." he says with a sigh and places his palms on the desk before him. " I wish, really I wish, it were not always the innocent who had to suffer the most in times of war-but sadly, they are. You will understand that it is _mandatory_ to wipe out this- _madness_ that has infested the colonies as soon as possible- and for good. And thus, I daresay, I might have a job in mind that would suit you just perfectly- not in an infirmary, but for me. You know what I'm doing, don't you?"

And when she nods, he smiles at her and finishes: " Give me some time to think it through, Mademoiselle. Tomorrow afternoon, five o'clock tea ? I'm looking forward to the pleasure of meeting you again then."

She agrees and stands up and he kisses her cool, little hand with outmost courtesy, deliberately ignoring her bitten fingernails.

So- this has in deed been the most curious afternoon, he thinks, when she's gone and thoughtfully pulls himself another glass of sherry before he calls for Abigail and a fresh bottle.

But strange as it was, it is nothing compared to the conversation that awaits him the next day, when Captain Simcoe arrives to give him his report on recent events.

 

Of all men he knows, friend or foe alike, there is certainly not one who he would dislike more, and from the heart.

Not that Simcoe would be useless or ineffective- he is anything but- he has to admit that. Men like him are indispensable in times of war, men who are destined for the rather ugly business, men who don't mind to get their hands dirty if it serves a higher purpose.

Or in Simcoes case, because they simply _enjoy_ it.

But he doesn't want to be unfair, Simcoe is more than just a gory beast. What he has achieved in command of the Queens Rangers is highly impressive. Like he told him himself, it is one thing to be a murderous savage and quite another, to command a band of murderous savages.

 

He recalls the first time he met him, when he was still Hewlett's man.

He was one of the British soldiers, who he welcomed at his house in Philadelphia after a successful prisoner's exchange. Simcoe, he remembers, was of an impeccable appearance, almost a cartoon of a British officer, with his flawless uniform, his overdone politeness and his disturbing, soft, high- pitched voice- and then, at the dinner table, he stabbed the man next to him with his steak knife the second he accidently unmasked himself as a rebel spy.

 

As for outward appearances only, André thinks, Simcoe has visibly changed.

In his new, green uniform and with his own hair he looks more- well, _human_ \- but he knows, the impression is deceptive.

Right now, André thinks, he also looks weary. There are visibly fresh bandages around his chest under his coat.

With growing disbelief he listens to his report.

"So you say, Rogers is Culper?" He shakes his head and gives a short laugh. "This is- unexpected, in deed."

"Exactly my words, sir," Simcoe replies with a thin smile. "And I'm deeply sorry I let him get away. As it turned out, the old dog still had a bag full of dirty tricks- but at least, I took his eye. He shouldn't be hard to find."

André shudders inwardly. "Presumably," he replies thoughtfully.

_Robert Rogers_. He cannot believe it.

That cunning little bastard. The man is dangerous and he himself certainly not the last on the list of people he holds a- valid- grudge against. But to think that he was that mysterious enemy contact in Long Island all the time- well, he is glad, his relentless hound dog has not killed him. There is a lot that he would like to hear from him first. And Simcoe, handling the issue in his usual "shoot first, ask questions later"- manner would have deprived him of that-again. But it is beyond hope to expect this man to ever learn patience-

 

If even possible, Simcoe seems to be even more restless than usual today, considering the unnerving way he strolls around the room, examining and touching practically everything he can lay his long, pale fingers on.

He does that _every time_.

André curses himself inwardly that he forgot to stow away his personal belongings before Simcoe's visit. He would have to have Abigail clean up everything afterwards.

Not that Simcoe's hands were by any means dirty, but as for him they are always covered in blood. And he just _hates_ the way he fingers anything like it belonged to him.

"Put that back and sit, Captain, _please_ -" he barks and Simcoe reluctantly drops the framed spectacles he had been curiously holding to his eyes and obeys, his now unoccupied fingers drumming irritatingly at the desk before him until he finally finds the liqueur glass to cling to.

André sighs and takes the opportunity to pour himself another drink as well. " I assume, you heard about Hewlett's- unexpected resign from his command?" he asks in a casual tone.

Simcoes eyes flash up at him from above his glass. They are of an iridescent blue.

"In deed," he replies slowly. "And you don't find that- well, odd?" he inquires.

Simcoe raises his eyebrows and shrugs as if this didn't concern him at all, which he thinks exceptionally unlikely, considering their long-time private feud.

"I can only assume, Hewlett finally came to the conclusion, that he has always been unsuited for a military post." Simcoe says in his unnerving, arrogant tone.

"Quite unlikely," André replies with a thin smile. " From what he told me, it is because he plans to get married-although I can't quite understand why he would have to cross the ocean for that."

Simcoe returns his words with a derisive little chuckle but he is still shifting uncomfortably in his seat. André can tell, he is eager to get up and start pacing about the room again. But then Simcoe controls himself and empties his glass instead.

"Speaking of marriage," he begins and André could swear, his voice suddenly sounds somewhat shaky. But that cannot be.

Simcoe clears his throat. "As it is, I- I wanted to ask you-that is, I have lately been considering-" he pauses, frowning, before he continues in a forced detetermined voice. " I have recently begun to entertain the idea of getting married myself."

Andre raises his eyebrows in disbelief. He couldn't have been more surprised, if Simcoe had just revealed his plans to join a local amateur theatre group.

It is all he can do not to laugh. But that would be unwise. Psychopathic killers like Simcoe tended to be swift to take offence- and he has no intentions on ending up with a steak knife at his throat-

"Married," he finally manages to repeat. " Well, I must admit, you caught me by surprise, Captain."

He takes up the decanter and fills their glasses anew. "Now, that calls for a toast, I should say. But I am curious-may I ask, who is the lucky bride-do I know her perhaps?"

Well, it is not really _that_ absurd, he thinks. André has never actually considered Simcoe a handsome man- compared to the usual type most women would find attractive, in other words- _himself_ \- but he has the proper age and is not exactly unsightly in a pale, stiff way, and most of all, he has a promising career in the army.

But still- he would have never seriously expected his Captain to be romantically involved in any sort- let alone any sane woman with him.

But if he was shocked before, he would be all the more by Simcoe's next words.

"I believe you do," his hound dog says and actually manages to flush like a shy maiden. "Her name is Marian Fane. She is Hewlett's niece. From what I've heard, Hewlett agreed to leave her patronage to you, when he decided to go back to Scotland."

 

At this moment, there comes a muffled sound, scarcely audible, from the backroom door of his office.

André frowns. "Excuse me for a moment, Captain" he says and takes the opportunity not to have to answer straight away. He walks to the door to the backroom, opens it ajar, and to the wide- eyed stare and desperate head-shaking of the girl behind it.

With amusement and perplexity alike, André raises his brow. Looks like his day is getting better by the moment.

He carefully closes the door and walks back to his desk.

"My cat," he explains with an apologetic little shrug of his shoulders as Simcoe turns his head briefly and raises his eyebrows with a thin smile, obviously thinking he keeps some secret lover hidden in there. Which would have been not so unlikely in earlier days. But those times are over.

Slowly, he walks back to his desk, watching the back of Simcoe's head, the tangled red curls in his stiff neck. Could it be? No, impossible. Men tend to believe what they want to believe, especially men like Simcoe.

But he will be damned if he missed this golden opportunity to indulge in the evident discomfort of his courting hound dog- just a little longer.

"Miss Fane, is it?" he asks airily. "What an- _interesting_ choice. Especially considering the- disagreements between you and her uncle."

He pauses and takes a moment to delight in Simcoe's pained expression. "But the eyes of love are blind, as they say." he goes on cheerfully. "I assume, Miss Fane must have been just as surprised at your proposal as I am- you _have_ proposed to her already, have you?"

Simcoe's flush deepens. "I have not. Not _yet_." he says through clenched teeth. André's amusement reaches incredible heights.

"I hadn't the time," Simcoe explains in a defensive tone that is the sweetest music to his superior's ears. "They left Setauket rather hastily-and as you said, I am not on best terms with her uncle. So I thought it best to talk to you first- about my- intentions."

"I am honoured, Captain," André replies, not too gleefully as he hopes "But I'm still surprised-I don't know if you knew, but Miss Fane is- well, I wouldn't know how to put it nicely- practically _destitute_. There are no properties in England to inherit, nor any kind of appropriate dowry to expect, as far as I'm informed-"

"I'm aware of that," Simcoe interrupts him curtly. "And fortunately, I am in a position, that allows me to- make my choice without having to consider _filthy lucre_ -"

André, who does not have this privilege, nods sympathetically. Of course,he knows of this famous Navy Admiral godfather-

"Me and my men were lucky enough to rescue Miss Fane from an ambush by rebel outlaws, " Simcoe continues.

"Yes, that's what she told me." André confirms.

"And she, in return, " Simcoe adds hesitantly. " tended to my injuries, after Rogers shot me. She owes me her life and I owe her mine. So, one might well say, we have an- agreement."

 

"I see," André says before he decides that it is time to finally have Simcoe face up to the facts. He leans back in his chair and gives him a sympathetic look- or so he hopes.

"I understand, Captain." he says softly. "Alas- and much as I hate to be the one to tell you this- I talked to Miss Fane yesterday, and she said nothing of an -agreement of any sort. More than that- she clearly declared that it was not her wish to get married. At all. Instead, she asked to work for me-as a spy- I know, I know-" he adds with a smile, when he sees Simcoe frown in disbelief. " It is rather uncommon. But I'm afraid, I already gave her my assurance." he finishes. In truth, he made his final decision just now.

He sees Simcoe's face visibly fall. His pale-lashed eyes blink rapidly when the full comprehension sinks in.

In other circumstances, or with any other man, he would have certainly felt sorry for him. But Simcoe is no ordinary man. And if he himself sacrificed the love of his life on the altar of warfare, what could the questionable feelings of his hound dog mean to him in any case?

In Simcoe's defence, he has to admit that, he quickly regains control over his features. But then, he is not surprised. This man has icy water running through his veins instead of blood.

And he wouldn't want him any other way. He is interested in Simcoe's unrestricted loyalty and his ruthlessness, no more no less, certainly not his dubious intentions towards women.

"Well," Simcoe says at last, in his usual, cool tone, and if a slight trembling of his hands belies him, he covers it up quickly by accepting another glass of sherry from his superior. "It seems, I have been misled."

He empties the glass, then he looks up and adds in a rather business-like tone: "What about Setauket? I expect you to pass Hewlett's command over to me, since I am the highest ranked officer. I have every reason to believe that Rogers is still around there somewhere and so are his confidants, so I consider it best if I continue my chase-"

André empties his glass and shakes his head in feigned regret. "No Captain," he replies. "That won't be necessary. Captain- Wakefield ( he manages to remember the name just in time ) is next in charge, I believe. He should be able to report any suspicious movements to me. If Rogers is in fact reckless enough to show up in Setauket again-and I must say, I highly doubt that- he will surely inform me as soon as it happens, while your service- and the service of the Queens Rangers will be demanded on the field of battle rather than in some-backwater places like Setauket. I thought you would be glad to hear this, Captain."

He looks at his Captain and meets his icy blue stare.

"Don't worry too much about Rogers. Just as you said, he shouldn't be hard to find. And perhaps, " he cannot keep himself from dealing a last blow. " perhaps you should be grateful you have not caught him. For, in the end, what would the hunter be without his prey?"

 

Simcoe rises and for a moment, he towers above him in all his exceptional, threatening height. "In deed. "he replies blankly. "But a true hunter will never lose the scent of his prey. And it would be dangerous to expect him to. Good day, Major."

Simcoe bows and turns on his heels. Once more, Major André finds himself looking forward to a time when he wouldn't have the need of this man's special abilities any longer.

"In case you should feel the need to drown your sorrow," he calls after him, in a sudden urge to have the final say. " I could recommend you a place I frequently visit myself." He quickly writes an address on a piece of paper and hands it over to Simcoe, who has stopped and turned back at him, his lips pressed thin and a murderous glint in his eyes.

"It belongs to one of the resident newspaper makers here. Nice, quiet place. Liquor not exactly cheap, but good. Lots of beautiful women, too, without much- restraint. Actresses and such. Enjoy yourself, Captain."

 

After Simcoe has left, he waits a long moment before he gets up and opens the door to the backroom of his parlor again.

"You can come out now," he says softly and holds the door for an evidently embarrassed, flushed Miss Fane.

"I-I apologize, major," she starts to explain. "I was early for our meeting and your maid let me in and- and when I heard, who your guest was, I decided to retreat to the back room. I- I didn't want to meet him-"

"And most understandably so," he says with a soothing smile and gestures at the chair, Simcoe had just left. "Please sit. I'm afraid, it might be too late for tea but I hope you won't decline a glass of sherry?" She doesn't.

"Well, " he says, jovially. " I'd say you learned your first lesson in spying today. There is absolutely nothing condemnable about eavesdropping at doors, however, it can prove- _vital_ not to make any sound doing so-"

Miss Fane drops her gaze and flushes anew, in a way he finds rather appealing, and when she meets his eyes again, hers are filled with utter confusion.

"As I said I didn't mean to-spy on your conversation, Major," she says hoarsly. "And I could not have been more surprised by what I heard than you were-"

"It's alright, "he says. " Don't worry about it. Am I right to assume, you haven't changed your mind about entering my service then?"

"Of course not," she replies quickly. " Major, I assure you, I had no idea, that Captain Simcoe wanted to marry me- I'm still speechless- "

She pauses, evidently aware of what her words might sound like. "What I mean to say is, _no_ \- my intentions have not changed. I want that job."

"Good," he says and pours them new drinks. "Everything is sorted out then, isn't it?"

 

And it is. André is no fool, he is quite aware that she isn't telling him the whole truth.

Clearly there is- or has been- some kind of connection to Simcoe which goes beyond tending to his injuries, but whatever may have been between them, it is in the past and anyways, he couldn't care less about it.

Where others see people, he sees figures on a chessboard. Their motives, intentions and feelings are of minor priority as long as he can make sure, it is _his_ hand that makes their next move.

"Then let's drink to that. "He says and raises his glass to her."And now tell me, Miss Fane-have you ever been to Philadelphia?"

 

 

Marian leaves André's office, but before she walks out of the front door, she stops and turns to the silent figure of the maid that showed her out. "Excuse me," she says with a small smile. "Abigail, right? I have already heard a lot about you." She wrinkles her brow as if she was trying to remember something. "Major André mentioned an etablissement here he visits frequently. You don't happen to have an idea- ?"

"As it happens, I do," the other woman replies in a somewhat derogatory tone. "Although it is no place I would recommend to a single lady-"

Abigail meets the gaze of the girl before her and quickly notices, her advice falls on deaf ears. She sighs, then she produces pen and paper from the pocket of her apron and writes an address on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well- long time no see, right?  
> This chapter is especially dedicated to tvsn, the one and only, whose André inspired me so much that I felt I should give him a bigger part in this ;)  
> So, this was my first fanfic and it is- and will remain- kind of sketchy no matter how much I rewrite it, I'm sorry. Anyways, thanks for reading!


	11. Room Service

On his way out of André's office he passes a wide-eyed, alarmed looking Abigail who quickly jumps out of his way without even noticing her, and out of the front door into a chilly drizzle he doesn't feel either.

The fading day is just as grey and miserable as one would wish to create the most suitable background for his personal doom.

He starts to walk, trying to resist the urge to turn and run back to André and tell him _everything_ about Hewlett's presumable collaboration with the enemy.It would look suspicious to speak about it only now. And considering his superior's unmistakable glee about his misfortune, he cannot claim to feel guilty of depriving him of that specific information.

 

He has been walking for a while already, oblivious of the people who cross his path and hasten to step aside at the sight of the frightening emptiness of his stare, when it occurs to him that he actually has no place to go.

The obvious choice would be to rejoin his men at the cheap ginhouse he left them, but in his current mood he has no desire to see them, or anyone else.

However, he needs a place to sleep. And drink. _Alone_.

 

He stops and notices that his cramped fingers are still clutching the sheet of paper which André had handed over to him with his spiteful smile. He enfolds it and reads the address his superior has written on it in his elegantly curved script.

 

_Rivington's Corner, Coffeehouse, Wall Street_

 

Very well. One place is probably as good as another to drink away his frustration until he will finally receives new orders.

Back in service on the glorious fields of battle. That is, in fact, a good thing. André is right.

What would Setauket really be to him than a backward farm town? He never planned to stay there so long, let alone spend the rest of this war amongst cabbage farmers and village idiots.

 

 _But Rogers is there_.

He knows, he is hiding in his hole somewhere there, along with his fellow traitors. And it should be _his_ task to catch him, not Wakefield's- if the man is even capable of it.

He is nothing more than another of Hewlett's incompetent minions, slow-witted and fearful, not at all suited for what has to be done.

A clever strategian like Rogers could give him the runaround for years, if he wanted to, while he would sit in Hewlett's empty chair in his office at Whitehall, enjoy exquisite dinners and exchange stupid amphibologies with that pompous magistrate and all in all be just as useless as Hewlett was before him, if not more...

 

By the time, he reaches the place, it is already beginning to get dark.

It is a big, stately house in a lively street, ablaze with light and visibly well-frequented with what seems to be the higher ranks and well-off tories of the city.

Actually, it doesn't look at all like the dark, quiet hole he wishes to bury himself in, but he is still somewhat weak and exhausted from the long walk and his coat and breeches are soaked and uncomfortably wet from the constant drizzle.

He walks towards the richly ornamented entrance portal and tells the man in front of it his name and rank but receives only a bored "No militia" in response.

"Provincial forces," he presses through clenched teeth. " _not_ militia."

The doorman, who clearly doesn't know the difference shrugs and looks him over in his uniform but doesn't make a move to open the door for him.

Repressing the strong desire to pull his bayonet and cut his way through the ignorant idiot he produces the paper from his pocket and holds it up to his face.

"I'm here on explicit invitation of Major André," he hisses in hopes the man can even read.

The doorman seems to hesitate, but then a corpulent gentleman on his way out opens the door from the inside and he takes the opportunity and shoves himself past him into the parlor and to a merry buzz of loud voices, clinking glasses, the chanting of royalist songs and bright, artificial laughter from some dolled- up city drabs amongst well dressed gentlemen and officers.

Actresses and such, is it?

Yes, this is definitely André's area of studies. But in the end, what is an actress other than a whore, expecting a foreplay of witty conversation and high priced drinks? He is not interested in actresses, or whores, as it is. Except for one, of course.

 

He bites his lip and makes his way to the bar, in hopes nobody will try to talk to him or even worse, recognize him. The young man behind the counter is dressed in black and has a plain, calm face and if he were not completely absorbed in his own gloomy thoughts, he would perhaps have noticed the subtle expression of hostility on the man's face at his approach- or rather at the recognition of his uniform. But he doesn't.

He asks for a warm- up drink and a room, and although the parlor is visibly crowded, the man behind the counter tells him after a few moments of silent consideration, in a calm, and polite voice that there is in deed one vacancy left to offer.

He nods and asks for a messenger before he hastily writes a note about where his belongings, he all but forgot about until now, were to be sent.

The madeira, as André promised, is in deed good, albeit all but cheap, and neither is the room, but he wouldn't have expected otherwise at such a place. He orders a fresh bottle to accompany him on the way to his room.

The ringing laughter from one of the "actresses" follows him on his way up the stairs and his shoulders stiffen in disapproval.

 

How could he have been so wrong- and yet again? Is this some kind of evil curse, this continual misjudgement of women's intentions towards himself?

His plans had seemed so clear and perfect to him when he thought them trough before his departure.

Before his mind's eye, he had clearly envisioned her reaction upon his generous offer- from unbelieving surprise at first, over cautious happiness to deep gratitude- after all he would not only have offered her his good name but also a home at Whitehall, the very place her uncle had not been able to defend for her-

-while she had obviously long decided to offer her services to his superior instead.

And we all know what kind of _service_ that is, he thinks bitterly.

 _Intelligence_ , what a joke. Everyone in the army knew how André recruited his female agents and to what purpose...

 

Well, that was saved by the bell, wasn't it ? He almost made the biggest mistake of his life. Turns out she is in fact not so different from the trollops down there- and not even near as appealing when you think about it...

 

He retreats to his room, locks the door behind him and hangs his coat up to dry before he takes the bottle and pulls himself another glass of madeira.

The sweet, exquisite taste of his favourite drink turns to bitter bile on his tongue.

Perhaps he would eventually have to change to something stronger. And to a less- _elegant_ place. Where nobody cared if he got dead drunk. Where he would be in the company of other drunkards who would with some luck be stupid enough to provoque him into a fight.

 

He stands unmoving at the window and looks out at the shadows growing longer on the still busy street.

Perhaps he should look out for company after all. Not one of those frilly moppets downstairs, but some cheap Holy Ground whore who wouldn't even try and pretend that she liked it, too. The details didn't really matter, as long as she was fairly young and healthy. And preferably _not_ blonde.

He turns away from the window and starts pacing about the room.

Yes. That's what he will do. More drinks. A fight. And a cheap whore. In any order.

 

He grabs his still wet coat, finishes his drink and is just about to leave the room, when he suddenly hears a knock at the door.

His luggage already? No, it can't be. It is probably just the host to ask if he needs anything.

 

When he opens the door, it is to the very last person he wants to see. His eyes blink in disbelief.

It is _her_ , obligatory doctor's case in hand, her chin raised up defiantly she looks at him with those disturbing eyes.

His first impulse is to slam the door in her face.

"Miss Fane," he manages after a shocked pause. " To what do I owe the pleasure?", the icy cold tone of his voice belying his polite words.

Marian frowns at his tone and looks nervously at the coat in his hands.

"Captain. You-you wanted to leave?"

"How observant." he replies flatly without making a move to let her in.

Marian bites her lip but obviously doesn't take the hint. To be honest, he wouldn't have expected otherwise.

She takes a deep breath."I need to speak with you." she says. "It won't take long. Won't you- won't you ask me to come in?"

Without a word, he turns sideways from the door to let her in and shuts it behind her.

Watches her take a few hesitant steps into his room, before she unbuttons her cloak and turns around to look at him again and he cannot help but notice how pretty she looks in what must be a new, fair, silk dress, inviting to run your fingers across the fabric.

_Most likely a gift from her new, generous patron._

Even her hair, although again free from any appropriate headdress, looks passable for once and shimmers golden in the fading daylight.

When he thinks about it, it is almost as if she deliberately intends to show him what he will never have.

He feels rage burn up inside him and determinedly tears his eyes away from her delicate, silk-wrapped shape.

"And what can I do for you, Miss Fane?" he hears himself sneer with a look at her doctor's case. "Do you want to change my bandages? Oh by the way, I didn't yet have the chance to thank you for your efforts- since you left Setauket in such a _hurry-_ "

Marian frowns at his words. "No. As I said, I wanted to talk to you. But maybe we could- could we sit down?"

He raises his eyebrows and walks over to the table to pour himself a glass from his madeira bottle and when he sees her eyes eagerly follow his movements, he gives her a broad, fake smile. "Oh, _of course_. Forgive me." he pipes and fills another glass for her which she takes and empties in one go.

He furrows his brows and twists his lips into a thin, disapproving line. Drinking is such an _ugly_ habit on a woman. If only it would make her ugly.

 

He sits and places both hands on the arms of his chair, his fingers nervously drumming against the wood.

"Well?" he says, wide-eyed. Marian looks across the room and he notices with a vile, little smile that there is no other chair for her to take a seat. She can either sit on the bed or remain standing in front of him like a naughty child expecting a lecturing.

Marian seems to come to the same conclusion for she walks determinedly over to the table and pours herself another glass.

He sighs. "I am really curious about the reason for your visit, Miss Fane," he says. "Apart from drinking my madeira, that is. But as you well noticed, I was just about to leave. This might be my last night off before I am back in the field again-"

"Yes," she interrupts him and adds, in his back: "I know. I- I happened to overhear your conversation with Major André earlier."

 

He freezes. "Why am I not surprised?" he asks acidly. A terrible thought crosses his mind and he reaches out in a flash and grabs her wrist to pull her around to face him. "The _cat_." he whispers.

In her defence, he has to admit, she looks embarassed. His eyes widen. "In André's - _bedroom_?"

"No!" she gasps out and tears her hand off his grip. "Or well- I don't know. There _was_ a bed in there but that doesn't mean...I mean it's not what it looks like! I simply retreated to the room when I noticed Major André had another visitor-"

"So you were able to spy upon a conversation which was not meant for your ears, I understand. Exactly the kind of thing one does in a situation like this."

Marian turns away from him and faces the wall."Just add it to the list." she murmurs.

"Pardon?"

She turns around again and puts her hands on her hips. "Your list of my _irresistible feminine charms_ ," she snaps. " It must be quite considerable given the fact, that you wanted to _marry_ me."

He presses his lips to a thin line and says nothing. Marian looks down on him wide-eyed. "Why did you say that?" she demands to know.

When he refuses an answer she turns away and starts pacing through the room. "I- I just don't understand it. Is this supposed to be part of your- private feud with my uncle? Some sick joke in order to pay him back? "

He frowns. "If you had listened carefully- which you seem to have done- you _might_ have noticed that I refrained from saying anything incriminating concerning Hewlett," he says indignantly.

She stops her pace and turns back to him. "Then, why?" she insists.

 

He looks up and watches her. It is undeniable, she looks distraught. Her cheeks glow pink and her breath is going heavy. He can tell, she could use another drink. So does he, but he wants to stay calm and find out where this is going.

He shrugs and says in his best indifferent voice: "Since Major André made your opinions about the matter perfectly clear, I really don't see the need to explain myself..."

Marian snorts and steps closer to him, her eyebrows forming two angry little darts above her eyes. "You made _your_ opinions about me perfectly clear, sir." she snaps angrily. "Remember? A _faux pas,_ were that not exactly your words?"

He is pretty sure he wouldn't have used a French term, but he suddenly finds it hard to concentrate, when she is standing so close to him, close enough for him to breathe her in.

He blinks and fights back the urge to reach out and touch her, slap her, strangle her, he doesn't know, anything to make her stop talking.

"Well, that was before-" he starts.

She raises her eyebrows. "What, before you were shot?" she interrupts him again. "Before I saved your life?"

She laughs mirthlessly and starts her pace again. "So, that's what this is about? An obligation? A debt of honor? How _noble_."

 

The way she says it it sounds like the most vile thing to do. Which is irritating, given that _he_ is the one who has been wronged here. But nonetheless, he has the vague feeling, he is getting to the bottom of things. Or so he hopes.

"If you want to put it that way, Miss Fane," he replies carefully. "Although I don't see anything improper about offering my protection. Isn't that the usual way? An arrangement to... mutual benefit?"

"I don't need your protection, Captain!" she spits at him. "I don't want it and from all I've experienced with you, I hardly ever felt protected by you in any case..."

 

She exhales sharply and he can see her trembling, practically the embodiment of moral outrage. But she doesn't fool him any longer. She has come to _him_ \- _alone_ , and apparently not to indulge in his misfortune as he first thought.

He nods and attentively studies her flushed face. "I understand," he says slowly. "But may I ask- what is it that you want, Miss Fane? Why have you really come here?"

She flushes even more. "As I said, I wanted to know why," she says quickly. "And I do now, don't I? I should leave."

She takes up her case and turns towards the door.

"Wait!" he says and she starts at his commanding tone.

He stands up and with two long strides he is with her, takes her by the arms to turn her around and trap her between the closed door and himself. She looks up to him, alarmed, and to feel her so close, her body, her scent, makes his voice shake when he speaks again.

"I may not have been completely honest with you, Miss Fane," he says quickly and addresses a silent, hurried prayer to anyone who might listen, that his intuition is not playing tricks on him for once. "Everything you said is true. I _do_ feel obliged towards you and I _do_ wish to protect you. But of course, this is not the only reason. And if I have failed to- court you properly, it was only because I was too eager to do- _this_ \- again."

 

And with that, he lowers his head to hers and kisses her and notices in silent triumph, that he seems to have found the right words for once, for she doesn't withdraw and her tension eases when his lips touch hers.

He holds himself back and lets her taste his lips without pushing too hard, until he feels her mouth open up to him to deepen their kiss and he groans and lets his hands run up and down her arms beneath the cool silk, and they cling to one another and taste each other, and suddenly everything is as easy and natural as it has been the first time.

 

He holds her against the door and runs his fingers across the cool fabric of her bodice, covering the delicate swelling of her breasts beneath the silk, which seem to be made perfectly adjusted for his hands and then down below her petticoats, up her legs onto her bare thighs which are of the same smooth texture as the silk, only much warmer.

Before he knows it, he has pushed up her skirts, rumpling the fine fabrics in the process, panting in urge to relieve himself from the unbearable tension inside him, when she tears her mouth away from his and her voice is throaty with desire, but she says: "No."

"No?"

She must have noticed the desperate tone of his voice, for she smiles and walks around him, turning her back to him and says: "I'll need help with that dress."

Of course. Even better. Relieved, he carefully brushes the mass of blonde hair over one of her shoulders and hurries to unbutton her bodice before she comes to her senses.

His fingers tremble and it seems to take forever, and he follows up each button with passionate kisses across her exposed skin, pressing her against him in order to make sure she can feel how badly he wants her.

Her neck right beneath her hairline is covered with tiny golden hairs and exhales the sweet, fresh smell of soap and skin.

 

When he is finally done, she lifts up the dress and pulls it over her head until only a sheer undergown still covers what is soon to be his, and his alone.

 

He swallows hard and rips off his own shirt and when he sees her eyes fly to the bandages around his chest, he hastens to assure her: "I'm quite alright."

Then he pulls her to him again and lifts her up and carries her over to the bed and thankfully, she lets him do it.

 

He looks down on her and wonders briefly, how he could have ever thought her not beautiful. Her light hair on the pillow looks like an aureole framing a face from which all defiantness and resistance have left, her lips slightly parted and swollen from his kisses, her eyes glowing in anticipation and promise.

In utmost need he struggles himself free from his remaining clothes and sinks down on her to kiss her again, more demanding now, before he pulls up her underdress and pushes her thighs open with one strong leg and- feeling the welcoming heat and wetness inbetween- thrusts inside her with a groan of relief long overdue.

 

He has crossed the barrier before he even noticed, it was there and hears her inhale sharply against his mouth. His vigor immediately turning to utter astounishment when he realizes, that despite all her passion and evident readiness before, she has still been a virgin- of course she is.

His first reaction is a feeling of complete, selfish triumph- now she _has_ to marry him after all- quickly followed by a vague sense of guilt.

He stops moving and looks down on her. "Does it hurt?" he asks awkwardly- and quite unnessariliy.

She forces a smile and lies: "No."

He takes a deep breath and says: "Are you sure? I'll stop if you want me to."

Brave words, in deed, for he is not at all sure if he _could_.

In reply, she buries both her hands in his hair and kisses him, while she wraps her thighs around him to pull him deeper inside her.

 _Oh God, thank you._ A horde of savages in full war paint screaming bloody murder could not have stopped him now.

He knows he should take it slow, restrain himself in favour of her pleasure or at least give her the time to adjust to his size, but he just can't- he was so angry and has waited so long- and so he takes her in deep, sharp thrusts, enjoying her little moans of pleasure or pain- he can't tell which and neither does he care any longer as he indulges in the exquisite softness of her delicate, vulnerable flesh, drowning in a sea of lust and passion and blood.

 

 

Afterwards, they lie next to each other on the bed and he caresses her tenderly, his lips across her temples, kissing her softly, apologizing for having hurt her, promising to improve, making her smile.

Marian doesn't feel hurt in the first place.

There has been pain, yes, but also promises and she wouldn't have expected it to be any other way.

She has given away one more part of herself. Soon she would be free from everything. It is only natural, that the process was painful.

 

The way he holds her now is of a peaceful certainty, all his tension gone, relaxed in the knowledge that she is his, and she knows, the hardest part is yet to come.

She can tell from the lazy movements of his fingers across her skin, that he is about to fall asleep, but this is out of the question. And not only because of the uncomfortable wetness between her legs.

 

"John?" she asks softly and moves her face towards him.

"Hmmm?" His eyes half closed, he pulls her closer and brushes her mouth with his lips. "What is it?"

"I need a bath." she says determinedly.

He groans against her mouth and struggles to get up. "Of course," he says in a funny compunctious tone. "Forgive me."

He gets out of the bed and searches for his clothes which are scattered about the floor. The sight of the auburn curls standing on edge on his head makes her heart clench with love for him.

 

Once he's left the room she gets up quickly and takes up her doctor's case, where she looks for a small dry rot which she soaks in vinegar before she carefully washes herself with it, her lips pressed tight against the searing pain. It may be hard to be a woman, to be a _pregnant_ woman however, possibly doomed to die in childbed like her mother, would be much worse.

 

The first time her lover returns, it is with a heavy tin tub, and then another ten times at least, with buckets filled with hot water.

Marian suppresses a smile, when she sees him pant and his face gain more colour with each way up the stairs. Apparently, it isn't always easy to be a man either.

 

When the tub is finally filled, he collapses dramatically on the bed and Marian quickly steps into the tub, shaking with suppressed laughter.

He rolls around and leans on one elbow, smiling at her. "You're killing me. I hope, it's worth it."

"Absolutely," she moans and sinks into the warm water, noticing only then that she left the piece of soap and the rag on the table next to her doctor's case.

He follows her desperate glance and sighs, before he gets up again and walks over to the table to get it for her.

But he doesn't give it to her but sinks to his knees behind her, brushes her hair over the edge of the tub and begins to wash her himself.

No one has done that for her since she can remember, perhaps her mother when she was a little child, but certainly no one ever since.

Marian closes her eyes and tries to enjoy the sensation to the fullest, tries to capture this moment in her mind for all time, knowing nothing would ever be this good again, once the turning point was reached.

 

And it arrives all too soon.

 

He is washing her carefully, every part of her body, with slow, deliberate movements, which are soothing and stimulating at the same time and she feels like purring and grinding her body against his touch like a love-crazed cat.

"So," he says softly, without stopping his treatment, "I suppose there's no way to convince you to spend the night here?"

Marian takes a deep breath, when his big, warm hands run across her breasts. "I'm supposed to be back at Major André's place early tomorrow morning." she says.

"Of course." he replies cheerfully. "But certainly you will want me to accompany you when you tell him the good news?"

"What do you mean by that?" she hears herself saying.

The alien voice is back, the one, in which she spoke to her uncle before, the one, that enables her to say things she doesn't want to say at all.

She hears him laugh uneasily and his hands slide gently across her breasts up her collarbone. "What I mean?" he says, still in a forced light tone. " That you have changed your mind, of course."

 

"But I haven't."

 

His touch comes to a halt and Marian feels his fingers tremble against her throat and finds herself wishing for a split second that he would press his fingers into her flesh and kill her. His hands are strong and he has probably done this before. It would be quick and painless. She can tell, he is considering it also.

But then he lets go of her neck and instead pulls her head back by her hair to make her meet his eyes. His stare is bare of any emotion but sheer anger. "So you haven't, have you?" he hisses through clenched teeth.

He inhales sharply and gets up, his features changing from rage to utter confusion, which is even worse.

"But-" he turns to her and looks down on her like he sees her for the first time. "but you just gave yourself to me...why do that, if you never planned to back away from your stupid plans-"

 

The warm feeling of renewed lust giving way to a wave of anger, and suddenly feeling uncomfortably exposed in her nakedness to his wild stare, Marian firmly crosses her arms over her breasts.

"I told you I have an agreement with major André. He already paid me-"

"So what? I'll pay him back whatever you may owe him. Don't you think me capable of that?"

"But that's not the point." Marian tries to explain against her better knowledge. "All my life I have been pushed around like a brainless puppet with no chance to decide for myself. I don't want that any longer. And now I finally have the opportunity to be my own master, to earn my own money, make my own luck- and this is important to me. I don't expect you to understand that..."

He steps closer and watches her, frowning in disbelief. "You're quite right, I don't understand it." he says. "This is...crazy. Stupid. And _dangerous_. You don't seem to know, what "working" for André really means. You have no idea about espionage, no experience at all-"

"And that is _precisely_ why this will work."

"You're insane. Do you think this is a game? "

" _Of course it is a game_." she snaps back, angry now. " _And I bet I can play it better than you_!"

 

He freezes and his eyes narrow. Then he exhales and shrugs his shoulders. "Alright," he says at last and she feels herself shiver at the sudden deathly cold of his voice.

"So then, all this...meant nothing?"

" _Nothing_ ?" Marian sits up in the tub and makes the cooling water splash down to the floorboards. She shakes her head and laughs without mirth. "It was all I had left to give and I gave it to _you_! If that's nothing to you, then...then what is anything?"

 

He looks down at her, an unreadable expression on his pale face. Then he reaches out, grabs her folded arms and slowly drags them apart with no effort at all.

"I don't know." he says darkly." Let's find out about it."

 

In a flash, he yanks her up and out of the tub and carries her back to the bed, but this time she fights back, struggles and squirms against his grip, slick and wet as a fish trying to escape the hands of his catcher.

He smiles frostily at her futile efforts, throws her on her back on the bed and when her arms fly up to hit him, he grabs her wrists and carefully ties them to the bedpost with his scarf.

He covers her body with his and presses his full weight against her, until her frantic defensive movements cease and only her heavy going breath still testifies her resistance, or her excitement, or both.

"Alright, " he repeats with that frightening smile still on his face."Seems I did it all wrong. Let's start all over again, shall we?"

 

This time, he is in no hurry. And this time, he _wants_ to hurt.

He cups her chin with one hand, brings his mouth to hers and devours it until she gasps for breath.

He withdraws and starts whispering into her ear, while his hands caress her, slowly and ever so slightly.

His voice is soft and detached, but his words are ugly and gruesome, intending to cause her pain, while his fingers in return are gentle and skillfull, pleasuring her, and she is unable to block out either his words or her reaction to his touch.

The threats and insults he whispers into her ear get fiercer when he notices her answering sobs and moans to his manipulation.

He tells her a lot of unpleasant things. What the rebels did to him when they captured him and what they would do to _her_ , once they inevitably caught her.

She is still sore from their first encounter and his fingers cause her the most exquisite pain, until the tension building up inside her becomes unbearable and it is only, when he hears her cry out and feels her shudder beneath him, that he unbuttons his breeches and takes her again, and when his own pleasure overbears him, he finally stops talking.

 

And doesn't talk to her any more at all.

Not when he rolls off her, not when he unchains her wrists, not when she is finally able to get up again and struggles to put her dress back on.

He lies on his back and watches her silently, his face expressionless, making no move to help her.

Very well. Marian can't hope to restore anything near a proper appearance, but neither does she care.

He stays in the same position on the bed until she's done, his arms crossed behind his head, lips pressed thin, eyes bright and cold and sightless as pieces of broken glass.

 

Before she leaves, she turns around to him once more.

She wants to tell him so many things. How much she hates him. How much she hopes, she never has to see him again. Her eyes burn from all the tears she has not cried and her body aches in parts she didn't even know they existed. She feels stripped to her bones and turned inside out.

 

She wants to tell him that she loved him right from the start, and always would, to death and beyond.

 

Marian swallows. "I'm leaving now," she says at last, taking his gun from out of her coat and placing it on the table. "I believe, this is yours."

"Keep it," he replies in a dark, cold voice. "You might need it more than I do."

 

And when she takes it and walks out of the door, she is sure, these are the last words she would ever hear from him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, what can I say:  
> this story was first constructed during S3 ( before I even knew of Simcoe's submissive inclinations ) and his relationship to Marian is virtually a series of mutual suspicion and hurt. I'm sorry. I hate this chapter as much as you most likely will but I want to get on with the story so here it is.  
> Anyways, as always, thanks so much for reading!


	12. A Question of Loyalty

Abigail is cleaning up Major André's office.

She picks up empty glasses from the table and a plate with a hardly touched sandwich and carries them into the kitchen to be washed. Then she looks at the empty carafe, frowns and picks it up to refill it as well.

If asked, Abigail would have to admit, that she is worried. Her boss hardly eats these days but drinks all the more and she doesn't like it at all.

But of course no one would ask her that. She is nothing but one of many faceless servants bustling about the house like a swarm of busy bees, tiny and insignificant like a grain of dust on the floor.

Not that there _were_ any dust grains to be found here. Abigail is a woman who takes her job very seriously.

Wiping the cloth across Major André's desk, Abigail peers from the corner of her eye at his recent correspondencies. She takes a quick look around before she picks up a letter and skims through it, then another. Underneath the second letter, she discovers another portrait of Peggy and feels her lips curl into a small smile that disappears quickly when her thoughts travel back to Anna's visit yesterday and what she told her.

The Ring was safe, she said. Hewlett knew about Abraham's part in it but nothing about hers and anyway, he wouldn't tell André anything that might endanger his future wife in the process.

 _Trust but verify_ , Abigail thinks grimly.

As the quick check confirms, Anna has been right to trust Hewlett. Which is probably a good thing, in light of the fact that she is going to marry him.

_And go away with him._

Abigail sighs and tries once again to convince herself that she is happy for Anna, as she did all day.

But it is no use. She is _not_ happy. Instead, she cannot help but feel abandoned. Lost.

Sure, she has not seen Anna since she began her employment here but there has still been the comforting knowledge that she has never been far away- and now they would have an ocean between them-

She has pretended to be delighted for Anna, when they had talked. And of course, if anyone deserves a little happiness, it is certainly her former mistress. She has never been exactly lucky with the men in her life before. And if Hewlett is a good man, well-

Abigail has never before thought of the soon- to- be- retired major in terms like _good_ or _bad_.

On the one hand, he is the man who freed her from slavery, on the other it has been _his_ signature on the papers that made Anna lose her house and the tavern ( only so he could generously offer her vacancy at Whitehall later ) and it was _him_ who sent her away and seperated her from her son without a second thought.

Good or bad- in the end, he is just another man who thinks he could decide about her life, without even knowing her, let alone, caring for her.

Abigail is so fed up with men like him, so tired of being a helpless victim.

And that is why, she realizes, she had decided to play her part in this spy game in the first place.

Not for Anna, or well, not only.

Certainly not for the _cause_.

Abigail is not naive enough to believe, the freedom the rebels proclaim would include slaves, or women, for that matter. And she doubts very much, that her life means much to her customers apart from her usefulness for them.

But even if they are probably no better than the British occupants- perhaps even worse, concerning their general opinions about slavery- it is still _their_ country. They should be free to determine their own fates, not some king across the ocean or the strangers, who came here to fight in his name.

And most of all, if she is perfectly honest with herself, she simply wanted to do something, something else than kitchen work and laundry, something important and moreover, something that would distract her from the pain about Cicero's absence.

She expected it to be exciting. Dangerous, too, of course. But they are at war; everything is dangerous these days. And Abigail is no reckless fool.

 

However, what she could not have predicted, was that she would grow to like the man she offered to spy out.

John André, supposed to be her enemy, has never treated her other than with outmost respect and kindness right from the start. Not like an _equal_ , but not like a mere servant either. He treats her like a human being, and sometimes, Abigail thinks, even like a _woman_.

And as time went by, and especially after her employer arranged Cicero's return to her, Abigail couldn't deny that she found herself overall content to be at his service.

Sure- and even though André's household is much more genteel than Strong Manor or even the tavern- her job here is not so different from what she did for Anna, it's mainly serving dinner and cleaning up after him, but it is a job she gets _paid_ for.

And every now and then there would be conversations to be overheard, careless discarded letters to read...nothing that could really do much harm to anyone-

She has been his confidant, too. It is she who has been the go-between for him and Peggy, back in Philadelphia.

It was incomprehensible to Abigail why André would leave Peggy behind, it still is. It seemed obvious that they loved each other madly, they even spoke about a secret wedding. And now they say Miss Shippen is going to marry another. And André, although visibly heartbroken, has so far done nothing to prevent this-

And even if she doesn't understand, it hurts Abigail, to see him suffer.

But then, in a secret, hidden corner of her mind, there is a thought, so daring and outrageous that she has never dared to put it in words, not even silently to herself.

Apart from Peggy, she is probably the only person in the world, who knows John André's true feelings. _Who would be more capable of consoling him but her?_

It is ridiculous, of course. Abigail knows, there are plenty of women standing in line to offer André every kind of comfort, should he feel the need for it.

Indignantly, she shakes her head about herself and sets herself back to work. But her thoughts are not as easily wiped off her mind as the dust on the elegant furniture.

They had become so... close.

And that isn't good. She should not consider him a friend. He is not. One day she might be forced to do him a great wrong.

But still- who would be as close to her now as he is? Except for her son, of course, and perhaps Akinbode, whom she hardly ever sees these days.

Akinbode in his fancy new uniform. He too, is a soldier now, and not just a simple soldier, a _Queen's Ranger_ , one of Simcoe's men, designed to spread fear and terror amongst the King's enemies.

He looked so confident upon his last visit, so proud of his new position- but Abigail has not even been able to pretend to share his enthusiasm. She knows that he loves her and has always thought she felt the same but now she is not so sure.

He too, is one of _those_ men now.

 

And then Anna.

Anna, who is going to leave her behind.

Her farewell gift, a codebook, lies hidden at the bottom of Abigail's dresser, buried beneath her shirts and aprons.

Nothing would have to change, Anna had assured her. Only that she wouldn't report to her any longer, but- by far more dangerous- to a man in a coffee house in the city she doesn't even know, or directly to Ben Tallmadge in Washington's camp.

Abigail had only nodded, perhaps too perplexed or perhaps simply out of habit to do as Anna says, even if she is no longer her mistress and has always been more of a friend anyway, instead of uttering the words on the tip of her tongue, the first words that came to her head.

_I'm out._

It would have been so easy. No one would have blamed her, she's sure of it. Why, for heaven's sake, has she not said it?

Out of loyalty?

Has Anna's decision to marry Hewlett and leave America been an act of loyalty to the Ring? A last sacrifice to keep them safe?

If so, it was a sacrifice, Anna has not seemed exactly unhappy to make.

But what of _my_ happiness? Abigail thinks. What of _my_ loyalty?

When it comes down to it, there is really only one person on whom her happiness depends, to whom she owes her loyalty. He is twelve years old and has no one but her. And she'll be damned if she ever does anything that might endanger Cicero.

 

 

A few days later Abigail has carefully studied the codebook, every night when her day's work was over, by the light of a candle in the privacy of her own room. She has not sent any messages yet. She hopes, she won't have to send any.

She is just about to set the table in the dining room for supper, when Major André enters the room. He watches her silently, a little smile hiding in the corner of his mouth when he notices, she arranges the silverware exactly to his preference, like he taught her himself.

"Abigail, " he says cordially. "May I have a word with you in my office? That is, once you're done here, of course."

"Yes, sir." Abigail replies dutifully. "Supper won't be ready before twelve-thirty, I just talked to the cook."

She follows him to his office and stays standing in front of his desk, but he offers her a seat and pours himself a glass of sherry- most likely not his first one today, and there will be several more at supper.

He smiles at her. She can't help but notice how weary he looks. He is only five or six years her senior and she has always thought of him as a man in his prime.

But since back in New York, he seems to have prematurely aged. He has lost weight and there are deep lines around his eyes and mouth that haven't been there before. Even his hair looks thinner, or is this only because of the missing braid? It breaks her heart just to look at him.

"I want you to travel to Philadelphia next week. Could you do that for me? " he begins.

"Of course, sir. To...Miss Peggy?"

His smile takes on a distressed edge. "In deed. You remember, that she wrote me about her engagement?"

Of course she does. He had Cicero read the letter to him. Abigail nods.

"Well, " he says slowly. "What you might not know is, that the man she is engaged to is in charge of the occupying forces in Philadelphia. A general named Benedict Arnold."

Abigail looks surprised. "I understand, sir." she says although she doesn't.

"In fact, it was me, who encouraged Peggy to renew their...acquaintance." Andre clarifies. "In hopes, it may prove useful, that is."

He sighs and looks at her. "Don't get me wrong, my plans with that man never involved marriage," he says grimly. "And it is my sincere hope hat this- engagement- will last a long time, if you understand."

"What can I do, sir? Do you want me to convey a letter to Miss Peggy?" Abigail asks. She is still not quite sure, if she fully understands him.

Andre places his palms on the desk and looks at her. "I want you to accompany someone." he says at last. "Miss Fane-she is the niece of Major Hewlett, the future husband of your former mistress, you must have seen her a few days ago. I need someone in Philadelphia, someone to be around Peggy, to stay up to date with current events there. They are of the same age, they should get along well. I already wrote a letter to Peggy and asked her if she will be good enough to accept her as a-long term guest-"

He sees her frown in disbelief and quickly adds: "I know, that's what you've done for me, Abigail, and I know, Peggy trusts you just like I do. I did not ask _you_ because-"

He pauses and smiles again, and this time his smile warms her like a ray of sunshine. "I need you here." he finishes softly. "No one else could take care of me half as well as you do."

 

 

 

 

Not for the first time, and much to his chagrin, Akinbode realizes that he will never be what one calls a 'hard drinker'.

Tomorrow, Captain Simcoe is going to meet André to receive further orders for their imminent return to battle, but right now they are all gathered in a tavern and his superior buys round after round to properly celebrate the good news and he, being his second, is supposed to keep up.

It is extremely frustrating.

While Akinbode, and with a certain degree of pride, can claim to be the most hardened warrior among the rangers, practically immune to cold, pain and whatever hardships their job brings with it, it takes only two or three pints to knock him off his feet.

The men are in a wanton mood, eager to get back to fighting- and even more eager to spend their remaining pay at the Holy Ground brothels as long as they have the chance- which after a while, leaves only himself and his Captain at the table of the tavern and unfortunately, the latter makes no move to leave as well, but orders the next round instead.

 

Akinbode sighs. His brothers in arms miss no opportunity to mock him for being unable to hold his liquor and make no secret of the fact, that they take this for further proof of the inferiority of his race.

They waste their pay on drinks as soon as they receive it, while he saves every penny for a life after the war- which is something they probably can't even imagine.

Simcoe looks at his yet untouched ale, then at him with a slight raising of one of his pale brows. "What's wrong Akinbode? Are you not content to be back on the fields of honor again soon?"

"Of course I am, " Akinbode replies quickly and picks up the mug to take a sip.

Simcoe has had quite some of it himself, but Akinbode can't help but think that his Captain doesn't look half as wasted as he already feels. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes, as if he has not had much sleep lately and his eyes look glassy in the dim light of the tavern. But then, this is not so different from his usual blank stare.

"So am I," Simcoe says, before he suddenly asks: "Tell me Akinbode, have you seen Abigail lately?"

Akinbode starts. "Yes, sir. I-I came to visit her just today."

"She must have been happy to see you again." his superior says jovially." It's been a long time, after all-"

 

Akinbode takes another gulp of his ale. He finds it suddenly hard to speak, and only partly thanks to the liquor.

Even if seemingly in the best of moods, any kind of private conversation with Simcoe always makes him feel like he's walking on a tightrope and in his current condition, he is all the more afraid to misstep and fall.

He could just say yes and leave it at that. But then he remembers Simcoe saying, he always knew, when a man was lying to him.

He swallows. "To be honest-I don't know," he sighs. "she seemed-changed. Reserved."

He shrugs uneasily. "I guess it's hard to maintain a relationship when one hardly ever sees the other-"

"I'm sorry to hear that." Simcoe replies in a sympathetic tone. He really seems to be.

Suddenly encouraged, Akinbode feels like unburdening his heart to him. After all, who else would he have to talk to ? He takes another draught to smoothen his throat.

"It's just that my feelings for her haven't changed." it bursts out of him. " Not at all. And it pains me not to be able to see her, not to talk to her, not to know what she's doing all day-"

He looks up to see his Captain watch him with an unreadable expression on his pale features.

"She's happy to be in Major Andre's service, that much I know." He grimaces. "But I always thought-I mean, it has always been certain to me that one day we would get married and go away together-not _now_ , or anytime soon," he hastens to correct himself when it occurs to him, that he might sound as if he was thinking about _desertion_. "After the war, of course."

 

He casts a quick glance at his Captain, but Simcoe doesn't seem to have noticed the unfortunate wording.

He looks rather absent, like lost in his own thoughts.

"But now, you're not so sure about that?" he replies at last, in a distant voice.

"I wish I knew," Akinbode says. He clears his throat. "Captain,if I may ask- Abigail told me she was leaving for Philadelphia next week. With- Miss Marian?"

 

Simcoe looks up, suddenly attentive. His bright eyes widen but he says nothing.

"Well, I-I was surprised, that's all. Abigal told me, she was going to live there? But I thought-"

Simcoe still makes no move to do him the favor of finishing his sentence.

Akinbode sighs. "I thought you wanted to marry her." he finishes quietly. "Weren't you going to propose to her? Forgive me if I'm overstepping-"

"I did, "Simcoe interrupts him in a bitter tone. "But as it turned out, Miss Fane had- other plans. She has set her mind on working for Major André. So it will be Philadelphia then-" he adds thoughtfully.

"But-" Akinbode frowns and shakes his head. "I don't understand-"

"That makes two of us," Simcoe says with a forced smile. "But perhaps it's better that way."

He looks at his second, who is not sure if he expects him to object or not and thus, stays silent.

Simcoe shrugs and lifts his eyebrows. "Well, seems like we're both about to lose the ladies in our life to the same man. What are we going to do about it?"

Akinbode almost chokes on his ale. "Excuse me, sir?"

"I was only joking, Akinbode." Simcoe raises his mug. "To the eternal mystery of women." he sneers in a parody of a merry toast and empties it.

Akinbode follows suit, although he isn't sure if he really wants to drink to that.

He has no idea why Marian would have refused Simcoe's proposal- or rather, he has a _whole lot_ of ideas what could have gone wrong- but the liquor circulating in his blood and the sudden comrady in misery with his superior makes his heart break for him anyway.

 

"I don't know- maybe we shouldn't look at it that way," he starts slowly, noticing to his embarassment that his voice is beginning to slur.

He pauses and struggles to find the right words. "I really wouldn't like to think I have lost Abigail for good. But she's a strong-willed girl- she _had_ to be, she had to care for her son all by herself, after all. I thought we could- build something together, now that I am able to provide for her and Cicero, but maybe that was premature. Maybe she just wants to prove she is able to stand on her own feet."

He looks up at his Captain who furrows his brow and looks positively upset.

"You think so?" he asks in a thin voice.

Akinbode nods eagerly. "Yes, sir. I asked Abigail to _ru_ \- I mean, I asked her to marry me but maybe it just wasn't the right time, not yet. Maybe it wasn't the right time for Miss Marian either. But I'm going to ask her again when we return from our campaign. I won't give up so easily and neither should you."

And in the strong urge to say something consoling, he adds: "Miss Marian- she loves you, Captain, I'm sure of it."

 

To his great dismay, his words seem to have quite the opposite effect.

Simcoe's hands are cramped around his mug so tightly that his knuckles have gone white, he stares wide-eyed into nothing and his lips tremble as if he's going to burst into tears. Which would be horrible in itself but even more so, because Akinbode is sure he would not survive this night to tell the tale.

"I cannot," he hears his Captain stammer, his words barely more than a whisper. "She will never want to talk to me again. She will never forgive me."

 

Seems it is even worse than he thought. Akinbode swallows hard. "Where there's love, there's always hope," he says, trying to put as much persuasion in his voice as possible. "Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things-"

"Yes," His eyes still blindly focused at the depths of his ale mug, Simcoe nods a few times, as if to himself.

Then he looks up and his face has returned to his usual- in other words barely there- expression. "I'm impressed, Akinbode," he says drily. "I didn't know you are so well-versed in the bible."

His second lets out a silent sigh of relief. The terrible moment is over.

Simcoe takes his coat and gets up. "Thank you for the inspiring conversation but I have to go now. It's going to be a long day tomorrow and I still have some things to do before our departure."

"Of course. Goodnight Captain."

 

Akinbode is glad, Simcoe is the first to leave. He feels a little sick and he is not at all sure if he would be able to get up from his chair at the first attempt.

 

 

 

"Good morning, Abigail."

 

If Abigail knows one thing for sure, then that no matter how long she has already been and will still be working for Major André, she will _never_ get used to opening the door to the frightening sight of a cheerful Captain Simcoe smiling down at her.

To her great luck, Simcoe never seems to notice her apparent discomfort- or perhaps, as she thinks drily, he has seen this particular emotion on people's faces upon his approach so often, that he considers it to be perfectly natural.

She opens the door for him and he enters the hallway in his usual, confident way and tells her in his disturbing, high-pitched voice, that he has a meeting with her employer ( not her _master_ , he seems to remember that much ) at nine.

Abigail glances sideways to the big clock in the hallway. It shows a quarter past eight and she knows it doesn't lose time.

"You're early, sir." she declares. "Major André has not yet returned from- another appointment."

In fact he has not yet returned from wherever he spent the night, most likely Rivington's Corner or any other of the places he usually drinks the night away since their return from Philadelphia, but Simcoe doesn't have to know that.

 

Her visitor follows her gaze to the wall clock." Seems that way." He turns to her and smiles in a way he probably considers charming. "Well, as it is, I was hoping I could have a word with you before, Abigail."

Abigail freezes. She doesn't know what it is that makes everything the man says sound like a threat, but she is sure, whatever he may tell her won't be much to her liking.

"Not necessarily in the doorway, though-" Simcoe goes on, oblivious to her anxiety. "Perhaps there is some place, where we could speak more-privately? A cup of tea would be nice, too."

Abigail frowns. _Privately_? Surely he doesn't expect her to invite him to her own room?

"You may have a seat in the dining room, sir." she says at least. "Breakfast has been finished half an hour ago but there should still be tea-"

"Splendid." Simcoe takes off his coat off and hands it to her and she hangs it up before she walks towards the kitchen, her mind spinning over with ominous forebodings.

 

When Abigail returns with the tea, she finds Simcoe not sitting at the table but roaming across the room instead, where he touches and examines random things on the cupboards as he always does, something of which she knows, it infuriates her employer to no end.

To be honest, she doesn't like it any better, especially since Simcoe's current object of interest is a simple wooden toy ship which once carried a secret cargo.

 _How on earth did that thing get here_?

Abigail can't recall to have seen it earlier at breakfast and certainly it has not been her idea to place it at the cupboard for decorative purposes, it must have been Cicero or one of the other servants who has no idea about its original purpose-

"My son, Cicero, made that for me when he was younger." she finds herself explaining, her voice shaking with fear. "It's rather plain-"

Simcoe looks at her, smiling. "It's lovely. He is talented. I used to have a similar one when I was a boy-"

 

Abigail tries to calm down her heart and hands as she pours the tea for him. "Your tea, sir." she says, and when Simcoe makes no move to sit down, but keeps admiring the poor little ship with an absent smile, she adds somewhat irritated: "Captain? If you still want to talk to me? I have work to do-"

Simcoe places the ship carefully back in its place before he turns to her. "Work." he echoes her. "Of course."

He takes a step towards her and looks down on her from his threatening height.

"I know what you do." he says softly, gently almost.

 

Abigail almost drops the teapot.

Grateful for her skin colour which makes it impossible for her face to blush or turn pale, she still cannot help but flinch and her eyes widen in shock.

"Am I frightening you?" Simcoe looks confused as if the mere idea was absurd and admittedly, he has never been anything but polite, even friendly to her.

But even if he had not just said those words- of which Abigail can only hope, they don't mean what she fears- to her, he will always be the man who stabbed his seatmate at this very dinner table.

And probably due to her shock, she tells him exactly that.

Simcoe stiffens visibly and twists his features into a pained grimace.

"He was a _traitor_." he says in an oddly defensive way.

_Yes, now I definitely feel better._

"I know, " Abigail says. "Still it wasn't very pleasant to clean the carpets and tableclothes from his blood."

 

To her great surprise, Simcoe's pale face actually colours in a shameful flush. Apparently, he is well aware of the fact that this has not been one of the great moments in his career.

He finally decides to sit down and takes a sip of his tea. "I admit, I made a mistake. " he says through clenched teeth, eyes cast down on his teacup. "A mistake for which I have apologized to your employer long ago. " He looks back up at her. "I hope, you too, will accept my apology. In my efforts to save this country from dangerous criminals I may sometimes be- _overzealous._ "

 _You don't say_. Abigail thinks, but she feels relief wash over her.He isn't after her, he doesn't suspect anything.

And what is more, she just witnessed a rare moment of self-awareness from a man she wouldn't have believed capable of such a thing in the first place.

Simcoe still looks at her and it occurs to her, that he is actually waiting for a reply.

"Apology accepted, sir" she says awkwardly and is rewarded with a content smile. "What is it you wanted to talk about-?"

"Oh." he says lightly, as if just remembering it. " _Philadelphia_."

Abigail looks surprised.

"Akinbode told me, you're going to Philadelphia shortly, " he begins. "Don't blame him," he quickly adds, when he sees her frown. "I asked him about it and since I am his superior, it is his duty to tell me everything."

He empties his cup and puts it down carefully before he goes on: "He told me you were to accompany someone-someone I know, as it happens. Miss Fane, right?"

"Yes, sir." Abigail replies slowly. There is no use in denying something he obviously already knows.

Simcoe lifts his hands, which had been drumming fervently at the table during his last words. "I assure you, I'm not going to ask you about the why and wherefore, Major André's business is not mine and I don't want to know anything about it-"

He pauses and bites his lower lip in a coy way which looks so incongruous on a man like him, that Abigail can barely hide a smile.

"Anyway, the point is this," he finally comes out with it." I assume, you are going to visit her there from time to time and I would like to ask you the favour to- inform me of her- wellbeing- and in return," he adds quickly, before Abigail has the chance to decline, " I would be glad to deliver letters to you- from Akinbode. And any from you back to him, of course."

When Abigail only stares at him in disbelief, he continues in a soft tone: "As it happens,I know, Akinbode is very upset that you have so little time to spend together and he misses you badly when he cannot see you in a while. I assume, we won't be at the same place for long in the future which makes it hard to maintain correspondence. However, I will return here to report to Major André on a regular basis, so- this would be a good opportunity to keep in touch, when the matters of war threaten to seperate you from each other, don't you think? "

 

To tell the truth, Abigail finds it hard to think of _anything_ apart from the highly discomforting image of Akinbode who talks to Simcoe about his feelings for her, but what she says instead is:

"Akinbode cannot read. Nor write, as far as I know."

 

For a moment, Simcoe looks confused, but then he smiles. "Of course he can," he says cheerfully." I'm teaching him myself. You wouldn't think I have much use for a second who is not able to read my orders, would you?"

The thought of Simcoe teaching Akinbode how to read and write is in fact no less absurd than the idea of the two of them talking about their private lives, but Abigail finds that nothing can surprise her any longer this morning.

Simcoe's fingers have resumed their impatient drumming on the table once one. "What do you say, Abigail?" he asks. "A letter from Akinbode, written in his own hand-and _sealed_ , of course, every time I return to New York to report to Major André-in exchange for a few words on Miss Fane's wellbeing-"

"You want me to deliver letters from you as well?"

"No, no. Nothing of that sort." he says quickly and fresh colour creeps up his cheekbones.

Abigail cannot remember to have seen the man flush before and now this is already the second time within a few minutes. The effect is oddly appealing and makes his usually stiff and waxen features look almost human.

Simcoe clears his throat. "In fact, I'd far rather that she doesn't know about it." he clarifies."Miss Fane and I- she is precious to me but it is- well, _complicated._ " he finishes quietly. "All I want is to know that she's alright. Surely this is not too much to ask?"

To be fair, it is a small enough request and moreover, one Abigail can't think of a good reason to refuse. And it would surely be nice to get a letter from Akinbode from time to time-

Abigail agrees and watches the face of her unexpected visitor visibly light up when he thanks her.

 

She nods and leaves him to his tea, and as she leaves the room, she unobtrusively allows the toy ship to disappear under her apron before she walks upstairs into her room and buries it at the bottom of her dresser next to the codebook.


	13. The Luckiest Girl of the City

_Philadelphia, April 1779_

 

Born and raised in the country, Marian has never been overly enthusiastic about cities.

She had hated London, primarily because her mother's relatives loved it, and she had not been long enough in New York to see much more of it than Major André's house, the humble inn where they were billeted during their short stay and the small room upstairs in Rivington's Corner of which she tries not to think too much.

Edmund and Anna are now on their way back to her uncle's homeland and their farewell had been a rather brief and cool one- especially from Anna's side, but also Hewlett had seemed relieved to leave her behind rather than being concerned about her future life and Marian prefers it that way.

It was her decision to stay in the colonies and she is determined to face her future with nothing but confidence until she would be taught otherwise.

And although Philadelphia is almost as big as York City, Marian has to admit it gives a good first impression with all its pretty townhouses and its abundance of beautiful parks and gardens in full bloom.

 

But if the city is striking, her generous host is it all the more.

Margaret Shippen- _Peggy_ for her friends, soon-to-be Mrs Benedict Arnold and Lady of Penn Mansion- is doubtlessly the most beautiful woman Marian has ever met.

Half a head smaller than herself, Peggy is petite, graceful and lovely as a princess out of a fairytale, almost too perfect to be real.

Not a single one of her shiny golden hairs would dare to escape her extravagant highroll, not the tiniest spot to stain her flawless porcellain teint. Her eyebrows above big, azure eyes are plucked to perfect half moons, her lips full and rosy and seemingly always curled into a tiny, mysterious smile. Her delicate body is draped in layers of sheer, light silk and her feet in satin slippers are tiny enough to make Cinderella green with envy.

At the first sight of her, Marian- cursed with large feet and a general clumsiness which usually makes her ruin any dress in the shortest amount of time- can't help but think that Peggy does probably nothing all day but sit in one of her exquisite armchairs, her small, lily-white, perfectly manicured hands folded neatly in her lap, in order not to destroy the appearance of flawless perfection.

But she should find out soon enough that her host may have the looks of a precious china doll but nothing of its fragility.

 

And she isn't stupid either.

"Now tell me Miss Fane," Peggy says with a sweet smile, when the first awkward rituals of polite introduction have been fulfilled and the two of them are sitting in the parlor at tea- served in cups of the finest chinese porcellain, by servants with powdered wigs and dressed in livery.

"To what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of your visit, pray tell? What is our mutual friend more interested in- information about me- or rather from my fiancé ?"

Marian swallows. "Both, " she replies with an apologetic smile. "Major André considers it less- suspicious, if his secret correspondency with your fiancé is sent via a third person- for one, because you are soon to be married, and for another, because he doesn't want to endanger you in any way."

Peggy raises one of her painted eyebrows. "Ah, yes, I see. How truly attentive from our good major, isn't it?"

She takes a sip of her tea and darts Marian a gaze from under her long, deep black eyelashes. "And your letters to your-should I say, benefactor, are supposed to talk about nothing but our most innocent everyday activities?"

"That's the idea-" Marian nods and tries to copy the elegant way in which Peggy raises her teacup with two fingers, little finger seperate- and almost drops it.

"But it's not just for camouflage, " she adds quickly. "I think, major André is really eager to know every little detail concerning you. So, if you will, it's more or less killing two birds with one stone-"

Peggy gives her an ambiguous look."What an apt comparision." She sets her cup down and twists her lips into a faint smile. "And are we not two lovely little birds to sing his praise? Although I am afraid, _this_ little bird here will be locked in its golden cage soon enough-"

She leans forwards and holds a hand to her heart in her daring decolté. "Very well, write to him, then." she says in a fake, overdone stage voice. "Write him, Peggy Shippen is the luckiest girl of the city! One ball follows the next and I'm having _so_ much fun every day! And soon I'll be married to a famous war hero! What more could a girl ask for? How could I _possibly_ be any happier?"

As it seems, Miss Shippen is also a little melodramatic.

 

But unusual as the circumstances of their aquaintance may be, and despite all evident differerences, the two of them get along surprisingly well.

Peggy seems to find some strange comfort in the fact, that her former lover still cares enough for her to resort to unusual means as this to keep up with her daily life, as well as in the company of a fellow broken heart, which she recognizes quite quickly as the only thing she and Marian have in common.

Peggy is undoubtedly much more suited for the role of the beautiful young heroine, who sacrificises her heart for a noble cause and now suffers in graceful dignity, whereas Marian, who is more confused about her own feelings than anything, is grateful for the opportunity to immerse herself in someone else's tragic love story.

 

As the youngest of four daughters, and the only one who is still unmarried, Peggy enjoys a certain freedom to do whatever she wants and inviting a 'friend' to an indefinite visit proves no difficulty, especially when the unknown girl is from noble descent ( if only from her mother's side ) and the niece of a British officer ( although retired ).

 

Peggy's parents are less than enthused about the thought that their little girl is going to leave the nest soon, and even less about her future husband of whom they usually speak in an unmistakable frosty tone.

Peggy's father, a highly regarded and influential lawyer and council member, clearly seems to have loyalistic tendencies, but as a businessman he is not aversed to 'swim with the tide', and a high ranked officer of the current occupants as son- in- law certainly has his advantages, may he like him or not.

And even if the conversation at dinner is mostly about politics and the war, the Shippens are able to overall maintain a lifestyle as if all this was far away and not happening right at their doorstep, and Marian has no difficulties to fit in the daily routine of their household.

 

However, her own conflicting feelings are not so easily switched off.

She tries to suppress them as good as she can, but so far this has proven to be irritatingly hard.

As if some invisible protective shield has been broken along with her hymen she often finds herself on the verge of tears at the most random sights and inappropriate occasions.

The sun breaking through the leaves of a tree at a particular angle on a walk through the park.

The faint smell of orange flowers coming from the scented water of her bath.

All shades of red, from the wine in her glass at dinner or the roses in the garden, through to the sunset in front of her bedroom window.

A stray cat on the street with a missing ear.

A discarded childrens' doll in the gutter, muddy and soaked with rain.

 

She has not been able to wash herself with her vinegar after their second encounter and at first she is panic-stricken that she might be pregnant.

But then April slowly turns into May, accompanied with her period, and after a brief moment of utter relief, and to her great surprise and embarassment, she cries about that, too.

 

But even if time may not be such a great healer as it says- and Peggy is the best example for that- and even if the pain in her chest never completely goes away, it still becomes a little smaller with every day that passes and Peggy Shippen turns out to be an expert in everything that provides distraction from lovesickness.

 

Upon her arrival, it took her just one quick look at Marian to know that she needed nothing more urgently than a new dress and the care of a capable coiffeur to start with and insisted on this despite all protest.

( "How I wish, Freddy was here, " she sighed. "but he's back in New York, now. Not that I could blame him-" )

 

It seems a little peculiar to Marian that Peggy should whisper her coiffeur's name in such a wistful tone as if she would speak of her lover, but she has to admit that even the local surrogate Peggy summons a few days later does things to her hair which she wouldn't have thought possible.

Her usually untamable mane subdued into a hairdo á la mode is perfected by subtle make up- lead for her too tanned skin, khol for her eyebrows and vermillion for her cheekbones and lips- and a brandnew, tailor-made dress just for her, gossamer-fine and flowery as spring itself.

Marian looks in wonder at her reflection in the big mirror of Peggy's bedroom and is utterly surprised to find beauty there- not that she were as beautiful as Peggy, of course not, but beautiful she is nonetheless- a _woman_ , no longer a girl.

 

She releases her breath with a sigh. "I can impossibly accept such a generous gift," she whispers while she turns around in front of the mirror to be able to admire herself from all sides.

"It's much too precious-"

"Of course you can," Peggy waves away her objections with an approving smile. "I insist on it. I couldn't have one of my own dresses let out enough to fit your size, could I? And it is _my_ money and I spend it on what I want,"

The smile leaves her face. "While I still can, that is. Anyway-"

Her gazes settles on Marian's hands. "Gloves, too, I think. And shoes, of course. And after that- _dancing lessons_."

Marian is horrified at the memory of her last dancing teacher back in England and hurries to tell Peggy about it. But she only laughs and assures her, that her own dance instructor would not only be uninterested in Marian herself, but in women in general and after all:

"How could I bring out a young lady on a ball who cannot dance? You must know, Benedict plans to give a ball at Penn Mansion, which all his fellow high ranked officers will attend, up to his commander in chief, General Washington himself! Just imagine all these promising young men! Say what one will about the Continental Army-I know they are mostly of humble birth- but at least they wear their own hair-and some of them _aren't_ bad to look at, I assure you that-"

Marian bites her lip and thinks of a certain British officer who wears his own hair, too- red as vine leaves, red as blood, and frowns.

"I'm not interested in rebel officers," she says lamely.

Peggy lifts an eyebrow at her in the mirror. "Don't be such a poor sport! Politics are politics and a ball is a ball! An there's no better way to find a husband than at a ball."

"But I'm not looking for a husband." Marian reminds her sternly.

"Nonsense!" Peggy laughs. "Every girl is looking for a husband."

"Not me. I have no dowry," Marian shrugs her freshly powdered, exposed shoulders in her new dress and casts her eyes down. "Besides, I am no maiden any more." she whispers.

"Oh dear, " Peggy, who has preponed her wedding night already and given her virginity to another man long before, sighs.

"This may be a reason, but not an obstacle."

 

Marian watches her in the mirror. 

She has met Peggy's fiancé only briefly but she knows, that he is double her age, has been married before and is already the father of two adult sons.

As military commander of the city, he is naturally very busy, and has little spare time to spend with his bride-to- be, which is probably a good thing, because from all she knows, he seems to be constantly ill-tempered and prone to flashes of anger but then- who could blame him?

Despite his military successes and several grave injuries he had suffered in the service for his country,he was repeatedly passed over for promotion by the Continental Congress in favor of other officers.

The well-off tories in Philadelphia, not least Peggy's own family, regard him with contempt due to his humble background ( his father used to be a mere apothecary ), and he is anxious to reverse this unfortunate impression by living clearly beyond his means.

To maintain his extravagant lifestyle, he has been profitting from war-related supply movements and confiscating spoils of war in order to furnish Penn Mansion, a fact, which led to great discontent by Philadelphia's city fathers and some of his rival officers and now he is threatened to be court martialed.

That was the moment when Peggy had subtly suggested the idea of changing sides, telling him that " _if his friends won't appreciate him, perhaps his enemies will"_.

And since then, Major André is waiting for stratetically important information, which Arnold is so far not able- or willing- to provide.

 

In fact, the prospective turncoat is already beginning to regret his decision to plot with the enemy.

He had given André the information of the devaluation of the Continental Dollar, something Washington had told him in confidence in order to explain, why the Congress weren't able to pay back his active debts. But André is evidently _not_ satisfied.

He wants _intelligence_ \- which is beyond Arnold's field of activity.

 

And after bitterly complaining to Peggy, that André and Clinton treated him like a 'common spy' instead of the glorious field commander he is, he is now determined to give up his traitorous activities and instead appeal to Washington in person- and said ball is the result.

 

 

And General Arnold and his fiancée spare neither trouble nor expense to create an event, of which Philadelphia's society would talk about for a long time, a ball that would even outshine the legendary 'Meschianza' given for General Howe upon his resignation and return to England a year before.

 

In fact, it is exactly the kind of pompous celebration, which would have been Marian's worst nightmare back in England, but now, and much to her surprise, she finds herself almost enjoying it.

First of all, she is no longer the pathetic social misfit she was then, on whom everyone looks down with contempt.

On the contrary, to belong to Peggy's circle of friends seems to be enough here to be regarded as a person beyond any doubt, and when people look at her now, it is in the way, one would usually look at a pretty young girl in an ( admittedly wickedly expensive ) dress.

A dress, so tight-laced that it makes eating almost impossible, Marian thinks and looks wistfully at the exquisite delicacies piled up on the tables.

The other women at the ladies table, including Peggy's sisters and closest friends, are in a wanton mood and their attempts to include her into their conversation are as heartwarming as the constant replenishment of drinks, for their glasses are being refilled by attentive servants before they can even empty them.

Eventually, Peggy gets up and joins her fiancé to welcome the guest of honor, General Washington himself and some of his high ranked officers and Marian is beginning to feel a little dizzy.

The women on her table have gone over to talking about their various husbands or fiancés and are currently discussing the effects of aphrodisiacs, a subject, of which Marian is not sure if she finds it rather thrilling or embarassing and so she apologizes and gets up to catch some fresh air.

 

She steps into the hallway where she almost runs into a young man and is only able to stop her pace at the very last moment.

The victim of her almost-attack is a Continental officer in full uniform, who has apparently been too lost in contemplation with a huge wall clock to notice her approach.

"Excuse me," Marian and the unknown man say at the same time, before they, equally simultanously break into a nervous laughter.

The officer is young and of medium height and his hair- not covered with a wig but in all its natural glory, just as Peggy had promised- is dark blonde and neatly tied back into a braid.

Marian is the first to speak. "Admiring the interior?" she asks ironically after a moment. 

The officer blushes slightly, before he looks her over with a shy smile and says: "Indeed, Miss. We don't get to see many beautiful things in camp, you know."

He then seems to remember his manners and takes a bow. "Major Benjamin Tallmadge, at your service, madam."

He looks way too young to be a major, Marian thinks as she returns the polite ritual of introduction. "Marian Fane. And I empathize with you, major. Since I am a guest at his house, I've been living in the constant fear to accidentally break something incredibly costly."

His face lights up in a hearty smile, and Marian can't help but think- and not without a certain defiant satisfaction-that there are apparently men on this earth who find her both beautiful _and_ funny.

"You're a friend of General Arnold, then?" Major Tallmadge asks. "He is a great man. I am proud to say that I had the honour to serve under him." 

Marian shrugs her powdered shoulders. " A great man, to be sure. But I'm afraid, I hardly know him. I am currently the guest of his fiancée, Miss Peggy Shippen. My uncle is a British officer who left the Colonies recently, and Miss Shippen has been good enough to grant me shelter-"

"I understand, " he says and watches her, suddenly alert. "You're a tory then?"

Marian smiles. "Who knows?" And slightly embarassed by her own flirtations she adds mockingly: "I suppose you want to withdraw your offer to be at my service now?"

Major Tallmadge smiles back at her. He _is_ comely, to be sure.

"On the contrary, Miss Fane." he says and puts a hand on his heart. "My duty to my country requires all the more now, that I am not going to leave your side for the rest of the night."

 

There is a wave of applause and a swell of music coming from the ballroom, signifying that their hosts have started the dance.

Major Tallmadge bows again and reaches out his hand towards her. "Would you like to dance, Miss Fane?"

And to her great surprise, Marian finds, that she _does_.

She watches the rebel officer with a glint of amusement in her eyes. "At your own risk, Major. You cannot know this, but I am most likely the worst dance partner in both the old and new world."

Tallmadge laughs again. "And I always thought, that was me. Let's give it a try, I should say. I promise not to step on your toes if you don't step on mine."

 

It is only after the third dance in a row that Major Tallmadge has to apologize himself, because his commander calls for him.

Apparently his service is needed in a more urgent matter, because he leaves the ball after a quick farewell to his hosts, but the night is still young and Marian has no difficulties to find other dance partners.

 

 

In the early morning hours, and way too much in high spirits to sleep, Peggy and Marian are sitting in Peggy's bedroom and Peggy seems to be complacent like a cat in a bowl of cream with what she repeatedly calls Marian's 'good catch'.

Marian sighs. "Do you even know who he is?" Peggy says wide-eyed while she tries to pull out Marian's hairpins in front of the mirror.

"Of course I do- _ouch_! He introduced himself, after all-"

"I'm sorry, " Peggy says not very regretfully. "I didn't want to wake the maids. And I'm not talking about his _name_ , Marian. Not even his rank."

She pauses and picks up the brush to comb out Marian's blonde wisps of hair.

" _Intelligence,_ Marian, " she whispers. "That's what he does. Benedict told me about it."

She smiles at her in the mirror. "I'm proud of you, really, I am. Your first ball and you manage to snatch the rebel chief of intelligence."

"I'm not _snatching_ anyone, " Marian replies with a frown. "We have been dancing, that's all."

"Three times in a row, " Peggy corrects her and squeezes her shoulders. "Until Washington called for him. Did you see his face and notice how he ate nothing but wine cream all night? I bet he had a tooth ache again. He has _terribly_ bad teeth, did you know? It says, he wears dentures made from the teeth of his slaves on Mount Vernon-"

"No!" Marian snorts out an incredolous laugh and Peggy leans on her elbow and watches her, smiling. "Yes! I swear, it's true, Benedict told me about it. How terribly rude of the old man to steal your admirer, though, tooth ache or not. He couldn't take his eyes off you all the time, could he? Oh, don't scowl, now! He _is_ handsome, is he not? "

Marian shrugs uneasily. "Perhaps. I don't know-" She turns her head to look Peggy in the eyes. "Peggy, I told you, I'm not interested-"

 

Peggy sighs and gets up from the bed. "Yes, I know, " she says airily. "You love another. Don't we all? Don't talk to _me_ about love,I beg you. I know _all_ there is to know about love."

Her voice has taken on a bitter tone. She opens the upper drawer of her dresser and pulls out something from beneath her silken undergarments. She holds the object up to the window to watch it in the diffuse light of the early morning.

It is -a braid.

She turns back to Marian with a sad smile upon her pretty face. "Do you know what that is?" she asks softly. "That's all _I_ have left from love. Not much, is it? What do _you_ have in memory of your nameless militia captain? Apart from a broken heart, which I won't accept for a proper answer."

"Well, " Marian grimaces. "I have his gun-"

"Hmm," Peggy tries hard to maintain a straight face. "How very-well- _practical_ , isn't it?"

 

She sinks back onto the bed and Marian lies down next to her. "So that's what we have, " Peggy says, with a wistful smile. "A braid. And a gun. And our memories, of course."

She folds her arms beneath her head and stares at the ceiling with big, shiny eyes. "When John Andre and I were lovers,he used to wake me up every morning to play tunes for me on his violin- or his flute- all written by himself, too," she says dreamily. "Was it the same for you?"

Marian turns her head away to hide her sudden blush. "Yes, " she whispers into her pillow. " _No_. No- not really. He-he is no good man, Peggy."

Peggy still watches the ceiling. "He told me, I was the most beautiful girl he ever met and that he loved me more than anything in the world, "she goes on in a distant voice.

"And then- then he handed me over to an enemy general twice my age like a piece of war booty- and Benedict, he-he makes love to me like he's going to battle. A war ship under full sail. And he wins every time. I thought I could delay our marriage by giving myself to him, but it was never my body he couldn't wait to lay his hands on, but my fortune-"

She laughs shortly and unhappily. " _That's_ what John André did to me, Marian. Is _he_ a good man? And I love him still, and I would do anything for him. _Absolutely anything_."

Her voice dwindles to a whisper. "Anything so we can be together again. _Forever_. Until one day he will die and my face will be the last thing he sees-"

Marian feels a strange shiver creep up her spine. "Don't say that!" she says quickly, suddenly horrified without knowing why.

Peggy rests on her elbow and looks at her. "What's wrong?"

Marian frowns and shakes her head. "I don't know. It's nothing. Just- just don't tempt fate."

Peggy raises an eyebrow and sinks back onto the pillow and leans her head against Marian's shoulder.

"Very well. All I'm saying is-I suppose, it must be hard to be a great man- _and_ a good man- at the same time. Perhaps, it is not even possible."

She pulls her arm around the other girl. "But don't give in to despair yet.The day may still come, when our beloved heroes come back and rescue us. But until then-we must look after ourselves-as good as we can, wouldn't you agree?"

 

 

_Peggy Shippen to Major John André, May 1779_

 

_My dear friend,_

_please note, that my fiancé has decided to present his case in court martial and therefor plans to meet with his prosecutors in Washington's Camp at Middlebrook._

_I guess, I need not say that the outcome of this trial will be vital for both his reputation in the Continental Army and likewise, his further value for our cause._

_On a lighter note, I am delighted to tell you, that our mutual friend has recently made the acquaintance of a certain Benjamin Tallmadge, I assume you heard his name before._

_I daresay, that the further development of this friendship might prove useful, if you can think of a way which might encourage our friend to abandon former engagements._

_I hope, this letter finds you at good health. Be assured, that my thoughts rest with you and I eagerly await the day when we can be together again._

_Forever yours, Peggy Shippen_


	14. Quill and Sword

All throughout May, major Benjamin Tallmadge becomes a frequent guest at the Shippens' house.

Be it according to his own wishes, or rather because he doesn't want to insult the future Mrs Arnold by declining her invitations, is something Marian can only guess, but he has joined Peggy and herself at their afternoon tea a couple of times now, whenever his duties led him to Philadelphia.

Just the three of them, if one didn't count the servants, and every time Peggy finds some excuse or another to leave them alone after a while- most likely, as Marian assumes, so that the major's eye would not be distracted by a much more striking beauty, although she is certain, Tallmadge would rather throw himself onto his own sword than actually flirt with the bride-to-be of his worshipped general.

In fact, he seems to be a little intimidated by Peggy even- given his humble origin likely not used to entertain genteel ladies- whereas he is visibly more easy in Marian's company.

 

The lovely spring weather continues with one sunny day following the next, and Marian and major Tallmadge, both keen on outdoor activities, spend much time in the garden, or even take a carriage for a walk in one of the city's parks.

The company of the young rebel officer is pleasant enough; he is always polite, friendly and very obliging in every way and he really isn't bad to look at either, as she has to admit,with his open, handsome face, wavy blonde hair- and the rest is not to be scoffed at either, as far as she can tell from his uniform being a size too small to conceal much of what's underneath.

He is a nice conversation partner, an attentive listener and unlike _certain_ people, he dutifully laughs at all her jokes.

She enjoys his company; she feels safe with him.

No danger for her seems to come from him in any way- and likewise not the slightest hint of the thrill of excitement she has always felt in John's company- when she never knew- _and still doesn't know_ -what to expect, what would happen next, if he would rather kiss or kill her.

Benjamin Tallmadge, for his part, seems to want neither.

All in all- and although being five years her senior- Marian thinks of him less of a potential suitor but rather of the sweet little brother she has never met.

 

However, walks in the park and polite smalltalk are not what André pays her for and Marian is well aware of that, but he and Peggy are wrong if they think, Tallmadge came by his job for nothing- he clearly is no man who would give away stratetically vital information during pillow talk, let alone slip something of the kind during easy conversation.

Not that there _were_ pillow talk.

The young rebel officer-although as charming as one could wish- is clearly no more interested in deepening their acquaintance than she is.

At first, Marian assumes this to be due to his important task, or perhaps even because he's not interested in the fair sex at all, but as time goes by she begins to suspect that there must be more to it.

There is a shadow lurking in his eyes and at the corners of his smile sometimes, like of a recently suffered wound which has not yet healed, an unhappy or even tragic end of a former relationship which has left him cautious and hesitant to get himself into another one.

He seems to be a cautious man in general- most likely has to be in his position- always carefully navigating their conversation around dangerous cliffs.

If he still suspects her to be a loyalist, Marian could not say with certainty, but she does her best to give the impression of someone who is not interested in the whole war enough to actually choose a side- which isn't hard, because she really isn't.

Instead she tells him truthfully about her dislike of armed conflicts in general, and-equally truthfull- about her interest in medicine and her desire to work in an infirmary.

"A honourable task," Tallmadge agrees. "Did you yet have the chance to exchange medical experiences with general Arnold, Miss Fane? I believe, he worked as a pharmacist before he joined the army."

Marian suppressed a smile. She already noticed the way in which Tallmadge tries to mix the name of his worshipped general into their conversations whenever he can.

Truth be told, she would indeed not be averse to talk to Arnold about his medical knowledge, but according to Peggy, his apothecary apprenticeship is none of her fiancè's favourite topics.

"I'm afraid not," she replies with a regretful shrug. "The general is very busy, as you can imagine. He hardly has spare time to spend with his fiancée, let alone someone like me."

"Of course," Tallmadge nods, then he suddenly winks at her."What about your practical knowledge, then, Miss Fane? Would you recommend that I entrust my injured men to your care?"

It is clearly meant to be a joke, but the indication behind it, that she weren't capable of that, slights her more than a little.

"Well, in fact I have just recently treated a man with a gunshot wound," she replies rather snappishly. "He still _lives_." she adds with a sharp look at her companion.

To her secret satisfaction, Tallmadge looks appropriately impressed. "He must be most grateful to you, one would think."

" One would think," Marian echoes with a crooked smile. "but he's not exactly of the- grateful sort."

She doesn't elaborate and Tallmadge is tactful enough not to inquire.

"I think, doctors are not so different from- let's say-pastors," she says at last, remembering his father's profession. "It is our duty to treat all people in our care alike, no matter if they deserve it or not."

"You're certainly right," the young officer nods but then he curls his lips into a cheeky, boyish grin. "Although, with respect, I don't think you have much of a pastor in you, Miss Fane. Without doubt, you are much more entertaining."

Marian returns the smile. It is a rare moment of lightheartedness from Tallmadge and comes as close to flirtation as it is possible for him.

But she knows in her heart, that it is not - and never will be- enough to coax him into divulging something actually useful for her employer.

 

And this is what Marian tells Peggy as well, who is visibly not satisfied with the pace in which her "friendship" to Tallmadge processes, although she never says it directly.

With the date of her wedding to Arnold looming over her like a dark cloud, Peggy is becoming more nervous and desperate with every day that passes, but Marian knows she couldn't force things if she wanted to.

She may have told John in a bout of anger that she were a talented spy, but random eavesdropping on doors is simply not the same thing as trying to deliberately sound out someone, a very _nice_ someone on top of that.

 

As much as she wishes, she wouldn't think of John any more at all, she thinks of him all the time- and be it only to compare him with her new aquaintance and find her lover deficient in every way.

But it doesn't help. Tallmadge may be everything John is not, however, that is precisely the problem. He is not John. He could never be him.

Even if he may not think of her other than with resentment, now- if he still thinks of her at all. Almost a full month has passed since their last encounter and she has not heard a word from him.

But then, one morning, as the month comes to an end, Marian receives a letter from her employer that changes everything.

 

_New York, May 1779_

_My dear friend,_

_It is with great regret that I write to tell you of the terrible loss of our mutual aquaintance, Cpt. John Graves Simcoe, who lost his life fighting rebel outlaws in the woods of New Jersey. He was a great man and he died as heroically as he lived in the service for our King and country. I felt duty bound to write to you of his passing, since I know that he once helped you in a great need. My sincere hope is, that you perpetuate his memory not in desperation, but in even more eager effort to work on our shared purpose- which is to end this deplorable war, at all costs, as do I._

_My sincerest condolences, John André_

 

 

 

_New Jersey, May 1779_

 

The return to the "glorious fields of battle", as his captain had so flowery promised, has so far proven much less glorious than anticipated.

There were a few small skirmishes, sure, but in fact, as Akinbode thinks resignedly, it is all in all not so different from what they had been doing in New England- haunting the woods like the Horsemen of the Apocalypse in search of hidden rebels, mostly scaring uninvolved, poor farmers' families half to death.

Simcoe himself is visibly less enthusiastic about the whole business than when it was hunting down Rogers.

He holds no personal grudge against any of the suspects, whose poor cabins they search out every day and even his pleasure to bully them seems oddly absent as of late.

The daily routine of combing through the woods and further exercise for a battle that will probably never happen, leaves his men bored and irritable as well, resulting in occasional attempts to at least have their fun with some of the prettier wifes or daughters of suspected rebels- attempts, which are just as rigidly prohibited each time, which only leads to more discontent and resentments.

However dissatisfying, the days are tiring and the nights are no better, at least for Akinbode, who much to his chagrin finds himself on a very different, yet no less strenous, kind of nightwatch as of lately.

Admittedly, at first he was excited at the idea of learning how to read and write, grateful even, when his captain had come forward to teach it to him, but soon he would have to find out, that he has to deal with not only the probably most demanding teacher in the world, but also with the most impatient one. As with every other lesson, Simcoe expects quick results, and Akinbode, for his part, would be the first to pride himself to be a fast learner.

Alas, this is so much harder than bayonet lessons. Fighting comes easy to him and he is usually the first to perform any weapon training to his commanders' full satisfaction, but this proves to be of little help against the new grim enemy he has to face now- quill and ink.

Oh, he was thrilled and encouraged when he managed to spell and write his own name ( and quite a _long_ name after all ) at their very first lesson, but the pride of his abilities ( as well as that of his teacher ) had soon begun to dwindle in favour of desperation.

How could anything be _this_ hard?

It cannot be, Akinbode keeps telling himself, when his eyes burn from weariness as well as from the smoke of the wax candle inside his tent, and the letters he has so laborously written seem to dance around him and make no sense any more at all.

Abigail can do it, even Cicero can, and he is just a little boy. He must not give in.

In his defence, neither Abigail nor Cicero have most likely been forced to learn how to read and write by the lecture of _ancient verse-_ whose meaning he hardly understands when read to him, let alone when he has to read it by himself.

It's just not fair. Why can't Simcoe just give him supply lists to start with? But _no_ , it has to be Catullus or some other of his long passed fellows, whom he has learned to hate from the heart throughout the last weeks.

 

This night, he is ruminating over the new method of torture his relentless captain has inflicted on him for reasons only he knows- a piece of something, which at first glance seems to be poetry of a more recent date- although he cannot tell for sure.

Comparatively easier to understand than the cryptic verse of some old Greek or Roman scribbler, it is still far from a good read. In fact, even when Akinbode is certain he has finally worked out the meaning- it seems to be some sort of a love poem- it is still quite _bad_.

He frowns at his transcript, wondering where he might have gone wrong, when the flap of his tent opens and Simcoe's large shape appears in the entrance.

"How's it going, Akinbode?" he asks jovially and seats himself on his mattress. "Care for a drink? The nights can be a trifle chilly in these woods, even with summer on the way."

He produces a canteen from his jacket's pocket and Akinbode accepts the bottle, confused about what might bring his captain to join him in the middle of the night.

"Anything happening, captain?" he asks alerted.

"Happening? No, " Simcoe scoffs in his distinctive high-pitched voice. "What shoud be happening here in the middle of nowhere, I ask you that- and yet I am to report to major André about this _nothingness_ soon. It is my sincere hope he will have more important tasks for us this time."

He takes a gulp from his canteen and then turns back to his second with an expectant smile. "Which leads me to what I wanted to talk to you about- your first letter to Abigail will soon be on the way, I hope?"

His bright blue gaze flickers to the paper with Akinbode's laborious scrawl on it. "Are you advancing at your writing skills? How do you like the last work I gave you to practice yourself in?"

Akinbode clears his throat. " I don't know-" he eyes his captain carefully, but as always, Simcoe evidently expects a sincere answer. "To be honest- I don't know if I like it much." he mumbles.

Simcoe watches him for a moment and when he speaks again, his voice has taken on a distinctively cooler tone. "You don't? Why is that, pray tell?"

Akinbode bites his lip and wishes he had said nothing. What if he is going to accidently insult one of Simcoe's favourite writers?

"Remember, " Simcoe warns, raising one of his paintless brows. "Truth."

"Well, " Akinbode shifts uncomfortably on the mattress. "I'm not sure. It's not that I think it's _bad_ , it's just- it seems to be-somewhat- well- _artificial_ -"

"Artificial" Simcoe replies blankly, knitting his brows. "This is _poetry_ , Akinbode. It is _meant_ to be artificial-"

"For sure, captain," Akinbode hastens to assure him. "And I am certainly the last to criticise something I have no idea of-"

"True enough, you don't." Simcoe says frostily.

He is visibly upset- and more than the situation should warrant. Akinbode feels a shiver of panic crawl up his spine and bows his head. Obviously, it is much worse than he thought.

"Very well, " his captain says at last and then, to his surprise and utter relief, he hears him laugh quietly. Carefully, Akinbode lifts his head.

"Artificial." Simcoe repeats once more. "Fine. I understand. Well, in fact"- and suddenly he sounds oddly defensive- " it's only a small exercise in style, really. I meant to write it merely as an inspiration-for _you_. For when you write to Abigal-"

Akinbode raises an eyebrow and gives his captain a sceptical look. "That's very generous of you, sir. Although I doubt, Abigail would much appreciate a verse praising her fair skin, bright eyes and- what was it?- _hair spun of sunrays_ -"

"Poetic license, Akinbode" Simcoe replies, his face expressionless. "But of course, I cannot expect little minds like you to understand this."

He takes another sip from the canteen and sighs. "Artificial," he mumbles as if to himself and shakes his head. " I tried to express my _deepest_ feelings-"

"Maybe you tried just a little _too hard,_ sir," Akinbode, ever anxious to be helpful, offers with a broad grin.

His superior darts him a sharp look. "Yes. Well. I'll leave you to your _own_ work now. You have two nights to finish your letter to Abigail."

He reaches for the sheets with his disdained poem on it and stows them away in his jacket's pocket before he slaps Akinbode's shoulder as he gets up to leave his tent. "I think, I don't have to remind you, all this has to stay between ourselves?"

"Of course not, sir."

In that respect, Simcoe has nothing to fear. His captain knows perfectly well that Akinbode has never been on friendly terms with any of the other rangers and thus, all his secrets are safe with him.

 

 

He steps out of Akinbode's tent and makes a quick circuit around the camp. As expected, everything is quiet.

He retreats to his own tent and pulls out a fresh sheet of paper and his quill.

Over the past few weeks he has started to write several letters to Marian. The beginning is never difficult: he would express his genuine hopes for her well-being- he _is_ concerned about her safety, after all- but everything after that is not that easy.

He cannot write her anything about where he is and what he is doing right now, for reasons of secrecy- not that there _were_ anything important to tell anyway- and certainly she won't be interested in their daily weapons training.

He has considered to write her about the minor injuries he and his men suffered during their rare skirmishes with rebels- assuming she might be interested in that for professional reasons, followed by a short note, how good it would be if she were here to tend to them- but dismissed the idea as foolish as soon as he had written it.

It sounded like he was thinking of her primarily because of her _nursing skills_ \- which couldn't be farer from the truth.

What he really wants her to know- what he _needs_ her to know- is precisely what he cannot tell her, not even in written form.

And so he has started and burned one letter after another and finally decided to put his feelings in verse, let poetry speak where he couldn't otherwise-and failed even there, as far as Akinbode is concerned. Who, admittedly knows nothing about poetry, but certainly about love, judged from the way his features light up without him even noticing, every time he speaks Abigail's name-

He sighs and takes up the quill to start a new letter, one he intends to give Abigail for Marian upon his next visit to major André's house.

It contains the usual greetings and hopes for her well-being, followed by the poem and finally, below it, and written in very small letters-

" _I'm sorry_."

Which she then can understand as she pleases -that he is sorry for writing only know- or for the poem being so bad- or, as he hopes, for what it really means and what he simply cannot say.

 

 

_New York, a couple of days later_

 

"Abigail, " Major André says cheerfully. "Come, sit down."

He gestures at the chair but Abigail is unable to do anything but stare at the beautiful woman who is leaning against his dresser, a glass of wine in her gloved hand.

She wears a magnificent, and without a doubt wickedly expensive, robe which, same as her opulent hairstyle bears a certain familiarity.

André follows her gaze and frowns slightly. "Philomena, " he says as if he had all but forgotten about his visitor already. "You may leave now. I'll call for you tomorrow."

He turns to pour himself a glass of sherry and so the momentarily hurt impression on the beautiful woman's features escapes him, but not so Abigail. However, it vanishes as quickly as it has appeared.

"At your command, major, " Philomena says mockingly in a sonorous voice, which reminds Abigail of her profession, before she takes an overdone bow and retreats with a miffed rustling of her silken skirts.

André shakes his head, as if to wipe off an unpleasant memory."I'm sorry." he says flatly. "Please don't get this wrong, Abigail. My job sometimes requires- _unorthodox methods_ -as you well know. No need to waste a second thought on it- or tell anyone about it, if you know what I mean-"

Abigail sits and drops her gaze. " As you say, sir. You wished to speak to me?"

"Indeed." André looks at her attentively.

"I want you to travel to Philadelphia soon," he starts. "There are some letters I want to be delivered firsthand and also-" he pauses and pours himself another drink before he goes on in a deceptively light tone: " I heard, you had a, well- _private talk_ \- with one of my inferiors, Captain Simcoe, when he was here to receive my orders last time. May I ask, what it was about?"

Abigail looks up in surprise and he gives her a sly smile: "Come now. I'm head of intelligence. You wouldn't expect anything to happen at my house without my knowledge, would you?"

Abigail bites her lip while her heart starts to race. "No, sir. But it was really an unimportant matter, that's why I didn't think it necessary to inform you about it-"

"Oh I'm sure of it." André reaches out and takes her cold hand. "Don't worry, Abigail. I do not wish to reproach, let alone frighten you. I'm sure, you are perfectly innocent in this matter. Anyhow I need to know what it was about. Will you tell me?"

Abigail swallows. "Perfectly innocent, as you say, sir. Captain Simcoe asked me to- keep him up to date with Miss Fane's- wellbeing in Philadelphia, nothing more-" she pauses. "In exchange for letters to me from his second, Akinbode-" she looks up and meets her employer's gaze somewhat defiantly. "He is an-old friend of mine, so I saw no evil in this-"

"I understand, "André nods sympathetically. "And you're right, of course. But even if I am completely convinced about the sincerity and harmlessness of your motives, you may understand, that I cannot say the same of captain Simcoe's-"

He sighs and pats her hand in a protective gesture. "You know quite well what kind of man he is. And thus, I think, you will agree with me, that it cannot be advantageous to _any_ girl in the world to be the object of his, well- _interest_."

Abigail nods reluctantly and he continues: "But to tell the truth, I'm glad about this - _arrangement_ of yours."

He sits back and crosses his arms. "As it is, captain Simcoe will pay me a visit soon. And what I want you to do is this: I want you to tell him, that Miss Fane is soon to be- engaged -to a continental major, Benjamin Tallmadge, I'm quite sure he will remember the name-and I'm equally sure, this information will- cool down his affection a little- "

His smile takes on a sardonic note. Then he notices Abigail's wide-eyed stare and lifts his eyebrows. "I take it, major Tallmadge's name is not unfamiliar to you as well?"

Abigail straightens herself and shakes her head. "No. That is-yes.I know him. Or better, _knew_ him. He's from Setauket as am I. But I haven't heard of him since they said he joined the rebel forces," she says, the lie slipping smoothly from her lips like so many others before. " Is he truly going to marry Miss Fane?"

"Ah, right."André nods thoughtfully. " Setauket. I forgot. And yes-I have valid reason to believe it may come to this. But no one knows what the future may bring-"

He leans back in his chair and empties his glass. " _Perhaps all this won't matter any more soon-_ " he murmurs, almost as if to himself.

Then he shakes his head and folds his hands. "Well,that would be all, I think," he says conclusively and smiles. "Thank you for your cooperation, as always, Abigail. Trust me, it's for the best for everyone."

"Yes, sir, " Abigail replies slowly.

If there's one thing she has discovered long ago, than that "the best for everyone" doesn't necessarily mean the best for _her_ as well. And likewise, she knows now, she will have to skim through André's latest correspondance as soon as he leaves the house.

 

 

_British Garrison at Stony Point, 1 week later_

 

Assigned on personal order from general Clinton, who had informed him about the position of Washington's camp, colonel William Tryon arrives at Stony Point only to find an unexpected and most unwelcome troup of irregulars awaiting him there.

Speaking to their commander- an unbearable paragon of arrogance and impertinence- it turns out, that John André, the intelligence chief, has doubts about the successful completion of his mission and thus, decided to send this red- haired pest and his gang of brutes to "support" him.

It is all _very_ annoying.

Not only that this captain Simcoe shows no respect at all to his superior rank, he makes no secrets of his contempt for his militia men either- and neither do his men, sensing the repulsion of their commander like a pack of war dogs.

Tryon curses John André silently.

But after all, he has order from general Clinton _himself_. And since he is no man to just stand by and simply accept an offense as this, he refuses outright to let the Queen's Rangers accompany his men and instead orders them to remain at the garrison.

Simcoe's reaction can't be described other than the growl of a mad dog foaming at the mouth- and for a brief moment, the colonel fears for his life.

Of course, he cannot know about the specific information that has added to Simcoe's already _very personal_ grudge against a certain rebel officer and that he has been indulging in gory anticipation to meet his former captor at Middlebrook all the way from New York.

To Tryon's utter relief, Simcoe manages to swallow his anger- if only just. The memory of court martial is still too vivid on his mind to be completely blocked out by rage.

"In fact, I'm merely taking your advice, captain," Tryon finishes drily. "Didn't you- among other things- complain about leaving the fort unguarded during our mission? Why, now it's two dozen men more to remain for its protection-"

He gets up and looks up to the much taller man with a venomous smile. "Follow my orders and I _might_ consider to let you have a look at the great Washington himself, once I've captured him. That would be all, captain."

 

Simcoe leaves the colonel's tent with gritted teeth and murder burning in his eyes. He walks straight to his tent, where a bottle of brandy awaits him. It is probably not very clever to get drunk if you are to protect a garrison with less than thirty men remaining- especially because he can't suppress an uncomfortable feeling about the whole endeavour- but by no means he will be forced to watch this stupid, conceited amateur and his pathetic militia force leave for a raid he so fervently wanted to join himself.

 

But then- if he is very lucky, a thought flashes through the thunder- clouded darkness in his mind like a sudden ray of sunlight- Tallmadge will not be killed.

Only _captured_.

Brought back here in chains. No threat of being court martialed or any other wordly force would keep him from killing him then, slowly- and painfully.

 

It is the kind of night his former superior wouldn't have much appreciated, thoroughly dark, with no stars.

When the first combat sounds wake him from a restless slumber with unpleasant dreams, they are already all over the camp.

No firearms, just bayonets. Clever, he must admit that. It is almost a relief to be proved right in the end.

He is armed and on his feet in an instant- and so are his men- as he notices with grim pride, while the remaining regulars still sleep peacefully in their tents.

But is no use, of course.

Surprised at the presence of the Queen's Rangers as their attackers may be, his men are still outnumbered by a multiple and the enemy has the advantage of a surprise visit.

 

Still he indulges in the simple pleasure of fighting like he always does- the clashing of steel on steel, his whole body reduced to a perfect killing machine, every struck hitting its aim, every stitch followed by the thrilling death cries of a faceless enemy- until his ears are deafened for any sound but the noise of his own blood rushing through his veins.

His arm starts to ache and grow heavy- the pathetic remnants of defenders have long before thrown away their weapons in capitulation- but he is still fighting, back to back with Akinbode, bleeding from several minor wounds he doesn't even feel let alone that they would stop him- and when the blood-slicked handle of his bayonet gets stuck in an opponent's belly, he pulls his dagger instead.

It is only when he hears a triumphant voice screaming "The fort is ours!" that he takes a second to wipe the sweat and blood from his brow which are starting to blur his sight, and at this moment he finally sees the man he has been waiting for approaching him, the man he _really_ wants to kill.

 

" _Tallmadge_ ," he wants to say, but his throat is so dry and sore from screaming that it comes out as hardly more than a whisper.

The rebel officer smiles at him. He looks offensively healthy, his uniform shiny and barely crumpled, as if he had not partaken in the fighting at all. "Lay down your arms, captain, " he says almost soothingly. "This has been over for quite a while now, don't you see that?"

Simcoe bares his teeth beneath chapped lips. He will do no such thing as long as there is still life in him.

But then, a terrible blow from behind strucks the back of his head and his world goes dark.


	15. The Things We Do For Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. Now here's a long- and hopefully suspenseful- chapter to make up for this. As always, thanks so much for reading!

_It is with great regret...the terrible loss...John Graves Simcoe...lost his life...rebel outlaws...died as heroically as he lived...inform you of his passing..._

 

No matter how many times Marian reads major André's words, her mind refuses to understand their meaning, refuses to accept the terrible truth.

Killed. Dead. Gone. It cannot be.

To her own surprise, once the initial shock and horror fade, her first reaction is not so much grief or sorrow, but a surge of pure anger.

How _dare_ he? How can he possibly die now, when she made every effort to save his life after he was shot?

Then the anger fades also, soon to be replaced by an overwhelming flood of guilt and self-reproach. Because it is _her_ fault, of course. Why, oh why, had she not accepted his proposal?

There must have been quite a number of good reasons for her refusal then, but Marian cannot, for the life of her, remember any of them now.

She told him so many things, things that seem so unimportant and meaningless in retrospect, yet she didn't tell him the only thing that really mattered. And now she never will.

None of this would have happened, had she said yes. Even in the middle of the war, a newly-married officer would surely be granted a few days off duty, a week, two weeks? Maybe the army would have sent someone else to New Jersey. He would have never gone there, would have never met those rebels in the woods who ended his life.

 

 _Died as heroically as he lived_...likely the commonly used phrase in such cases, meant to console the victim's relatives, words as well-sounding as empty. Nothing about dying is heroic in the end. And she isn't even a relative- it was an act of courtesy on André's part to even inform her about John's demise, otherwise she would have never known.

 

The days are excruciating, when she walks about the house like a ghost, sits at the dining table, mechanically answering questions without even hearing the words, the nights, however, are unbearable.

In the dark, left alone to the anguish and despair raging inside her which make it impossible to find rest, Marian tortures herself endlessly with imaginings of John's death, one worse than the next.

Was it a lucky shot like the first time, or a cowardly, sneaky stab in the back? It must have been this way, a well-trained, battle-hardened soldier like Simcoe would not have fallen in a fair combat, unless- unless he was distracted, less attentive than usual. Had he perhaps thought of _her,_ about what a nuisance she was to him?

And then, when the rebels attacked, had he tried to pull his pistol and realised too late, he no longer had it because he had given it to her?

Had it been over quickly or did he suffer long before the actual end? Could they recover his body to send it back to England or was he buried where he died, in a hastily dug grave somewhere in the woods?

And then- and that's the worst thought of all- what had _she_ been doing when it happened? She might have been walking in the park on Ben Tallmadge's arm, perhaps tilting her head to him with a silly, flirtatous smile, or laughing about something he just said, while at the same time her lover breathed his last on the cold forest ground, all alone, covered in his own blood. And she completely unaware about it.

 

And that is another thing. Despite all their disagreements and the rather unfortunate outcome of their last meeting, it had by no means felt like a _final farewell_. There is a bond between them, created during that fateful night back in Setauket, when she brought him back to life, surely she should have sensed it, _felt_ it somehow, when something happened to him? But there had been no warning signs, no dreams or dark borebodings of any kind.

She had felt nothing. And now it feels, like she will never again feel anything.

 

Lost in her own agonies, Marian barely notices that Peggy, too, has apparently received a letter with disturbing news from New York and carries a hidden grief ever since then- a grief that even deepens upon a spontaneous visit from Abigail and a talk between the two behind closed doors. Her host is too much of a lady to let it show in public, but she is visibly pale, her beautiful face seems frozen to an expressionless mask and her smile never reaches her eyes any more.

Nevertheless, when it is time for General Arnold to leave for Washington's Camp in order to defend himself against the charges brought against him, Peggy proclaims that she is going to accompany him ( "We're soon to be married and he will need me there- after all, I have practically written this speech" ) and take as well Abigail as herself with her, and Marian, not at all convinced that a journey to a rebel camp will "take her mind off things" as Peggy claims, can neither find the strength nor the interest to decline.

 

 

 

_Washington's Camp at Middlebrook_

 

When he comes to, it is half sitting, half lying on the cold floor which is muddy and sparsely covered with straw, his hands tied with a row to a rusty hook in the wall above his head, and to a dreadful headache.

The blow against his temple with the bayonet grip was hard enough to knock him out for what must have been at least a whole day, judged by the fading daylight that crawls through the gap below the door of his prison cell.

Not hard enough though, to delete but one of many unpleasant memories- not least this specific deja-vu situation. Captured by rebels. By _Tallmadge_. Again.

 

Slowly, he turns his head, ignoring the glaring pain across his left temple, and sees Akinbode a few paces away from him, tied up in the same unkingly position.

Akinbode's dark features light up when he sees his captain back to life again and he cocks his head to point to the remains of bread crusts on the floor in front of him.

"Bastards been feeding us," he says with a grim smile. "Guess that means, they're not planning to kill us right away."

Simcoe nods his head carefully. "Dum spiro, spero." he recites in a hoarse voice, his throat dry from screaming and dehydration. And when he sees Akinbode's uncomprehending look, he forces his parched lips into a crooked smile and adds: "Which- if nothing else- should give us the opportunity for extended Latin lessons."

The smile leaves his face. "What about the other men?"

Akinbode shrugs ( or tries to, as far as his chains allow ). "Dunno. Nobody been in here 'cept for the fella who brought the food." he replies, his slang more distinct than usual, apparently caused by pain and exhaustion, even skipping the "sir" or "captain", but for once, Simcoe doesn't care.

He bites his lip. "Was it Tallmadge who locked us up in here?"

 

"In deed, I was." a cheerful voice answers from the door, as said man walks in with two rebel soldiers by his side. "But I'm afraid, I have to seperate you now. "

He turns to the two guards and casts a sideglance at Akinbode. "Untie him and take him to the others. I will remain for your entertainment, captain, don't worry." he adds with a smile.

Once the guards have cut Akinbode loose and pushed him out of the door, he turns to his captor with a broad smile. "You're too kind, major. I admit, I always suspected, you had a preference for me, but _this_ -"

Tallmadge raises a brow but the smug smile doesn't leave his face. "Spare your efforts, Captain. I'm in a way too good mood today. And I can hardly tell you, how glad I am that we finally meet again."

He moves closer and Simcoe can't help but stare wistfullly at the gifts he brought with him in a basket- a jug filled with water and a leaf of bread.

Tallmadge follows his gaze. "Hungry?" He asks in mock concern. "You must be. I apologize, if the continental army doesn't dine as well as you must be used to, but-"

"Thirsty," Simcoe manages to squeeze out through clenched teeth.

Tallmadge nods eagerly, takes the jug, holds it to his lips and watches him take a few greedy gulps before he pulls it away. Then he repeats the procedure with the food, breaking off small pieces and feeding him with it- a both oddly intimate and humiliating experience, and doubtlessly meant as such, but he will be damned if he does Tallmadge the favour of showing any feelings of unease.

"Thank you, major. What now? Am I to entertain you with answering your questions? Should you have forgotten about our last encounter and your-well, how to put it- _fruitless_ attempts to interrogate me?"

Tallmadge sits back on his heels, still smiling. " I have not forgotten about it captain, trust me. And I daresay, neither have you."

He watches his captor's face, as fresh and clean and excited as a schoolboy's, who can't wait to recite his homework in front of class. "Why, I would applaud you, were my hands not tied," he warbles. "But I wonder- will you pay me the compliment of performing the rather- ugly parts of the interrogation yourself this time? Or are we still waiting for your friend Brewster?"

He wonders, if his put-on calm and composure is as transparent as it feels to himself- the memories of the torture he suffered by the hands of those two men, buried deep in his mind long ago but impossibly to forget completely, fills him with a cold terror.

If his light, unconcerned tone irritates his captor, he doesn't let it show."Well," Tallmadge shrugs. "I _could_ ask you, how the British knew about the position of our camp at Middlebrook. But that would be a waste of time, wouldn't it? You knew nothing of interest then and now-" he looks over his ragged uniform. " Now as a mere _mercenary_ , I suppose you have even less access to vital information than before."

He gets up and brushes wisps of straw from his pants.

"Then, if I may ask, what's all this for? Why not just kill me?" He leans forward as much as his chains allow and stares at the other man with wide, burning eyes." For you better _do_ kill me this time, major. " he says in such a low and threatening voice that it makes Tallmadge flinch against himself. "Because if you don't, if you give me only the slightest opportunity to escape again, and as long as there is the smallest spark of life in me, I will with utmost certainty kill _you_ , and if it's the last thing I will do-"

Tallmadge shakes his head and laughs again but it sounds a little uneasy. "So much fervor, captain. I wonder, what have I possibly done to deserve it?"

"You have something that belongs to me," he snarls before he can stop himself. Tallmadge raises his eyebrows in surprise. " _Really_? Really, do I? I wonder, what that might be?"

He takes a step towards him and his eyes meet his with equal force. "But you see, this is where you're wrong, captain. You may not have realised it yet, but nothing in this country belongs to _you_. Or to your demented king, for that matter. It belongs to _us_. And we will take it back, piece by piece. This is just the beginning."

He nods and acknowledges this ardent speech with a thin-lipped smile. "It may look like this just now, " he replies softly. "But there's one thing you should keep in mind, major. Whatever you claim as yours, has been _mine_ before."

 

Tallmadge, seemingly unaware of his innuendos- or pretending to be- sighs. "You're a hopeless case, you know that, captain? No wonder, that you bound your fate to yet another hopeless case. In fact, I pity you, really I do. And thus, I shall promise you something. A favour, actually. You must have been wondering how we knew about your planned attack on Middlebrook. Especially, after you were so sure, you identified and eliminated a certain Culper? "

He leans forward and almost whispers in his ear. "You know _nothing_ , captain. But as I said, I'm in a really generous mood today. Not only, that I won't kill you yet- you are quite right, I'm still waiting for my friend Mr Brewster to enjoy this special pleasure with me- but before that, _before that,_ I will tell you _everything_ , everything you wish to know, and it will be the last thing you hear. And none of my superiors will save you this time. No one but me and the two of my men you saw know you're here, and they are very discreet. As for everyone else, you were killed in the battle at Stony Point."

He pulls back and turns to the door, every inch a victorious field commander at the pinnacle of his power. "But you must excuse me for now, I have guests waiting for me." he says with a last snide glance at his prisoner. "Sweet dreams, captain. I'm looking forward to our next conversation."

 

 

Abigail walks through the camp without noticing anything around her, numb with shock. Peggy had sent her to inform major Tallmadge about their arrival and ask him to dine with them, and eventually she had found him at the edge of the camp near the barns and stables.

It was only for the split of a second that she had felt Akinbode's eyes on her, when he was dragged out of the barn and quickly led away by two guards.

Enough to turn her whole world upside down.

 

She wonders how she had even been able to talk to Tallmadge afterwards. She cannot remember a single word she said, it is his words she hears all over in her mind.

 _Good job, Abigail_ , he had praised her. _Very well done. General Washington is very pleased. I'm proud of you_.

He had then allowed her just the slightest glimpse at the other prisoner tied up to the barn's wall. _Look what a catch we've made. Now I can fulfill Anna's request after all_.

Abigail feels, like she is going to be sick.

Anna's request. To kill Simcoe. Oh yes, she remembers.

How much her former mistress had hated the man who was quartered in her house. How much she dreaded his presence- his _omnipresence_ \- in her private space. No matter how polite and seemingly friendly, his soft voice had always carried a silent threat, the unmistakable certainty that he could do with her as he pleased, whenever he pleased-

He never did, though. And now Anna is forever out of his reach, far away in Scotland with major Hewlett. Most likely doesn't even think of him any longer, doesn't care wether he lives or dies.

 

Not that _she_ cares. If they had good reasons to kill Simcoe then, they likely have several more by now.

There would be no prisoner's exchange this time, Tallmadge had made that very clear. _But if he kills Simcoe, he must kill Akinbode as well_. As Simcoe's second, he would never remain silent about the unauthorized murder of his captain-

 

Her mind races. What to do now? What _could_ she possibly do?

Inform his superiors, Arnold, or Washington himself? She doesn't believe they would approve of Tallmadge's approach, but she cannot be sure. If they would even believe her. Either way, her career as a spy would be over. Tallmadge would never trust her again.

For a brief moment, she considers to ask Peggy for help, but then she abandons the idea as foolish as soon as she has thought of it. What could Peggy do? Let alone that she had barely spoken to her at all since she learned about the revival of André's affair with Philomena Cheer-

 

Should she try to free Akinbode by herself? But how? She doesn't even know where they brought him. And even if she found him, how on earth could he get out of a well-guarded camp full of continental soldiers?

Abigail suppresses a groan of helpless despair.

_Oh Akinbode, you stupid fool. Why did you have to come here, of all places? Why did you have to join the damned Queen's Rangers in the first place? It's all your own fault. Why should I even care?_

 

But she does. If she ever thought, she no longer cared for him, this day has cruelly proven otherwise.

Tears well up in her eyes, but she blinks them away resolutely. She has to attend Peggy and Benedict Arnold at dinner with Major Tallmadge.

 

And _Miss Fane._

 

Miss Fane, who, as André claimed, was going to marry Tallmadge but clearly doesn't give the impression of a happy bride-to-be, even less so than Peggy.

What if it wasn't true? What if she still harboured feelings for Simcoe instead? For certainly, he cared for her; he had been visibly _devastated_ when she had told him about Miss Fane's alleged engagement, as André had asked her to.

_Miss Fane, Simcoe and Tallmadge._

Could that be the solution to her problem?

 

In all her years of service, Abigail has served a multitude of dinners, but never witnessed one as strange and tense as this one, and surely it is one of the longest hours of her life.

Benedict Arnold is visibly nervous about his upcoming trial and consults his pocket watch every other moment, for he is to have a private talk with Washington later, while his fiancée merely picks at her food and takes hardly any pain to feint interest in the story of the successful night raid on Stony Point.

Only Tallmadge still appears to be in a cheerful mood, although torn between his attention to General Arnold, whom he obviously admires, and Miss Fane, who is just as pale, quiet and miserable as she has been all the way from Philadelphia. Just like Peggy, she hardly touches the food on her plate and talks only, when directly addressed, her voice sounding thin and distant.

Abigail bites her lip. She doesn't much like the idea of a partner in crime in such an obvious bad state, but what other choice does she have?

Tallmadge seems more confused and concerned by Miss Fane's behaviour with every minute, probably wondering when and why the bubbly, flirty person he met at the ball had been replaced with this lifeless stranger with her doleful expression.

But eventually, the mirthless event ends. Tallmadge excuses himself with a last, wistful look at Marian, which is rewarded with an absent smile. The girl retreats to her tent and Benedict and Peggy leave to meet his commander.

 

Abigail waits as long as it takes her to clear the table, as well as the evening sun to finally start to disappear over the horizon. She takes one of the steak knives, puts it in a basket, then fills it with a few leftovers and a bottle of wine, before she wraps herself in her cape, takes a deep breath and follows Miss Fane.

"You must come with me, " she declares without further ado, too troubled to waste her time with courtesies."There's something I need to show you- _now_." she adds, when Marian looks up at her, surprised by her urgent tone but clearly not much interested in whatever she might want from her.

She can only hope, that her intuition is correct. Miss Fane wrinkles her brow. "What-?" "You'll see," Abigail cuts her off. "Please, just put your cape on and follow me. Do you have a gun? Good. We might need it."

 

 

As luck has it, the men at the camp are too busy celebrating their latest victory to care for the two dark-hooded figures who carefully make their way to the stables at the edge of the camp.

When they reach the barn, where Abigail has last seen the prisoner, she detects to her relief only a single guard post. He leans against the door with a rifle on his shoulder and looks out wistfully in the direction of the sounds coming from his drinking, laughing and singing fellow soldiers, then up to the darkening sky with a miserable frown. A light drizzle has begun to fall.

Abigail lowers her hood and approaches him with an amiable smile. "Evening, Sergeant." she says in a lowered voice. " Major Tallmadge sends us to feed the dog you got in there." She reaches under her cape and produces the basket with her supplies.

The guard- a young man with blond hair and a freckled face- looks at them, then down on the basket in Abigail's hands. "Wine?" he asks with a sceptically raised brow. "Only the best for our honoured guests, eh? Far too good to be wasted on that dog, if you ask me,"

His eyes narrow in a suspicious frown. "And why would Tallmadge send two ladies to a dangerous prisoner?"

Abigail's smile doesn't waver. "He's been called to General Washington, that's why he can't come himself." she says airily. "But the wine's not for him. It's for _you,_ of course. Since you have to stand on guard here while your friends celebrate- now would you please be good enough to let us in before we get all wet out here?"

"Guess, that's alright then,"The guard shrugs and his face lights up when he takes the bottle from her hands and inspects it. Good wine. Perhaps the ladies are of the sort who enjoy the sight of a beast in chains, but that's not his problem. And if Tallmadge sent them-

He turns, takes out a key of his pocket and unlocks a small wooden door in the back. "But be quick. Don't go near him and call me if he tries anything-" he closes the door behind them, leans against it and begins to uncork the bottle.

 

 

Once the door opens, he is awake at once and blinks into the dim light. "Abigail?" he says incredulously, before he sees the second figure, who stumbles forward at the sound of his voice and his eyes widen in shock.

 _Marian_.

If this is to be part of his torture, Tallmadge is definitely capable of more creativity than he would have credited him with.

He forces his voice into a cool tone. "And the future Mrs Tallmadge, too, isn't that nice. To what do I owe this particular pleasure?"

Marian does not even seem to hear him. She just stands there and stares at him as if he were a ghost. " _You're not dead,_ " she whispers at last, and in utmost astounishment. She has a talent for welcoming words, that's for sure.

He twists his lips into a crooked little smile. "Sorry to disappoint you. But fear not, I'll be dead soon enough-"

Abigail looks from one to the other, then she walks over to him with two quick, resolute steps. "Whatever game this is between the two of you, we don't have time for that." she hisses. "There's a guard waiting in front of that door and he won't wait there forever." She turns to Marian. " So I suggest, you take that knife and cut him loose now!"

He raises his eyebrows at her commanding tone. He has never heard her talk like that before. It's quite funny, actually.

Marian finally seems to get over the shock of seeing him and hurries to do as Abigail told her. She has to lean close against him to cut his bonds and he can't suppress a painful moan as the blood starts to run back into his numb wrists.

"Everything alright in there?" the slightly dizzy voice of the sergeant calls from behind the door. Eventually it must have occured to him, that they've already been in there long enough to let him empty the bottle to the half.

His eyes flash towards the door. He grabs the knife from Marian's hands and jumps to his feet and to the wall next to the door, just at the moment, as the guard opens it and peers in suspiciously. "Ladies? What's going-"

His words turn into a gurgling sound as his hands fly to the knife in his throat. He twists it quickly and with an ugly sound, cuts the man's windpipe. The guard's eyes seem to pop from their sockets and his mouth gapes open and fills with blood. For a moment, he looks utterly surprised, then his body goes slack and he sinks to his knees, and he catches his fall and lays him out on the ground, where the body twitches for a few more seconds, before he stays still.

Abigail lets out a pained moan and Marian's pale face takes on a greenish shade. " Oh my God, " she whispers, "Couldn't you just- disarm him or something?"

He shrugs his shoulders. " I did, didn't I ?" He closes the door and gives the dead soldier at his feet a contemptous look. "Besides, I'm sure, he spat in my ale earlier."

He wipes the knife clean at the dead man's jacket and stows it in his belt. "Why, I guess, I better get one of thoses horses now and leave this unfriendly place-"

"No, " Evidently, Marian has come to her senses enough to disagree. "That would be madness. You can't hope to get out of the camp on your own, there are soldiers everywhere!"

"Then what? Do you have a better plan?" "Yes, I do." he hears Abigail's calm voice."I'll go and get Tallmadge. I'll tell him he must come alone. I'll tell him, you have taken Miss Fane hostage and that you're going to kill her if he doesn't promise you safe conduct out of the camp. You, that is-" her voice takes on a determined tone. "and Akinbode."

"Nonsense. He will never agree to that."

"Yes, he will." Marian says, with a certainty that fills him with anger. He glares at her. "Oh, of course, I forgot how _close_ you two are as of lately-"

"That's not the point, " she stares at him angrily and for the first time a hint of colour has begun to creep up her pale cheeks. "But he'll do it anyway."

"What, because he's such an honourable gentleman? Trust me, my dear, you don't know him as well as I do-"

"There was a woman he cared for," she interrupts him impatiently. " A tory. Saved his life. She got captured by the rebels, and one of his men tried to rape her and killed her. He told me about it. He still feels guilt about it and I'm sure, he would never let something like this happen again."

He acknowledges her words with a snide glance that makes his contempt for his captor very clear. He knows, he would _never_ allow his men to do such a thing in the first place.

But she ignores it, reaches into her cloak and takes out a gun from inside her pocket, his gun, and gives it to him. "Go, get him, Abigail." she says. "And thank you. We'll be fine."

Abigail grimaces in a way, which makes no secret of her doubts about that, but she nods and leaves.

 

Once she's gone, he walks back to the wall across the door,sits down, leans against it and loads the gun. "Come here" he says in a low voice.

She walks towards him and he pulls her down and to him, her back against his chest. He pulls her close and she leans into him. He sighs and holds the gun to her temple, then slides it down her cheek to her jaw, almost like a caress. His stubbles brush her other cheek when he says against her ear: " This is a stupid plan. It's never going to work, you know that."

"You have a better plan, then?" she whispers back, her body trembling against his.

"I do. Once Tallmadge is here, I'll kill him."

She lets out a snort. "You're never going to get out of here without his permisson-"

He shrugs. "I'll try my luck. And even if not, at least I would have my satisfaction. But you don't want me to kill him, do you?"

She turns her head to look at his face. Her lips almost brush his for a second, but he presses them to a thin line and turns his head away.

She shakes her head and says in a bitter voice. "No, I don't want you to kill him, if I can help it. Is that what you want to hear? Are you happy now?"

There's nothing more to say. He presses the gun to her temple again and falls silent. They do not have to wait much longer.

 

Tallmadge really comes alone, the careless fool he is. He walks into the room, gun in hand, and almost stumbles over the dead body on the floor.

He flinches with a muffled cry, before he turns to his prisoner, who crouches in the dark corner of the room, freed from his chains. "I don't know how you did this, Simcoe, "Tallmadge spits out through clenched teeth, "but I assure you, it will be the last thing you've done."

He smiles at him. "Oh, I wouldn't do that if I were you, major" he says in a cheerful tone.

Tallmadge unlocks his gun. "Nothing you say could stop me from shooting you like the mad dog you are." he hisses.

He raises his eyebrows and pulls back the hood from the small figure in his arms, who stares at him wide-eyed, with his gun to her head. "No? Not even if it was for the life of your precious fiancée?"

"My _what ?_ "Tallmadge takes a hesitant step towards them and his shoulders slouch in despair.

"Marian," he moans and looks at her in incredulous horror.

"I'm sorry!" she cries out and pretends to struggle against the grip of her captor. "When Abigail told me you captured him, I had to come and see for myself. I- I wanted to kill him, Ben. You have no idea, what that bastard did to me, you don't know, how much I _hate_ him-" her voice breaks and her words turn into violent sobs.

She is quite convincing, he must give her that. A little _too_ convincing, perhaps. He almost believed her himself. He presses the gun to her temple, maybe a bit harder than necessary.

"Let her go, Simcoe, " Tallmadge says flatly . "She's got nothing to do with this. Not even a monster like you will degrade yourself so much as to harm an innocent woman-"

He smiles at him. "Want to take the risk, major? A monster I may be, but whatever she may be, it's not innocent. "

Tallmadge wipes his brow in evident pain. "Almighty god, Marian- why didn't you _tell_ me?" He starts and frowns. "And how could he- he was tied up to that wall when I left him."

"The guard must have untied him." Abigails firm voice sounds in his back. He turns around and looks at her and she meets his gaze and shrugs her shoulders. "I have no idea, why, sir. But that's how we found them-"

She cocks her head towards the body. "Whatever he must have promised the poor soul- it certainly wasn't _this_."

Tallmadge is visibly confused, but he doesn't seem to doubt Abigail's-admittedly more than poor- attempt at explanation, which is in fact as surprising as interesting.

"What do you want, Simcoe?" he asks at last and it is the sweetest music to his ears.

"Two horses," he says quickly. "One for Akinbode, my second, if you will be good enough to bring him back to me- and one for me and Miss Fane- I will take her with me of course- for good measure if you will- oh and a pass to warrant save conduct out of the camp-"

"You're going to take her with you?" Tallmadge asks with a frown. He clearly isn't happy about the idea.

"Not for _myself_ , of course" he says in his best distant, arrogant tone. "I assure you, major, I have not the slightest interest in a skinny rebel whore-"

To his satisfaction, he feels her body stiffen against his and pulls her closer. So much for the bastard.

"Once, we're at a safe distance, I'll send her back to you, _unmolested,_ my word on it."

He shrugs his shoulders. "That is, unless you do something so stupid as pursue us-"

 

Tallmadge is visibly in great anguish of mind, torn between his desire to kill him and the concern for his alleged captive, but at last he grits his teeth, bows his head and nods in capitulation- a picture to frame and save for a rainy day, which lifts his spirits to almost heavenly heights.

 

Who would have thought he'd make it out of here alive? For once, fate seems to have decided in his favour. He is going to escape his captors once more and the woman he loves is back at his side. What could probably go wrong from now on?


	16. Whispers in the Dark

It is a wild escape- and one into the unknown, not only because the night falls quickly, but also because they cannot know, if the rebels wouldn't pursue them after all.

After what must have been an hour or more in breakneck speed on a narrow forest road to god-knows-where, it looks like Tallmadge would keep his word, but by then Marian is in a state in which she couldn't care less.

All she wants, all she cares for, is for this ride to end, to get off this horse and into a bed, in any kind of place, either friendly or hostile, as long as it is warm and dry.

What began as a soft drizzle has turned into a thunderstorm with heavy rainfall, the temperature has dropped considerably, and she has been wet to the skin and uncomfortably cold for a while now, despite her woollen cloak and Simcoe's bulky figure behind her in the saddle which preserves her from the worst.

He seems to be grateful for her contribution to his rescue in so far as he holds her as safe and warm as circumstances allow, but that's it. Even when they can finally slow their pace, he doesn't talk to her at all- not that Marian _wanted_ to hear any more of his snide remarks and terribly unjust reproaches, but it is just as annoying to listen to him talking to Akinbode instead as if she wasn't even there.

Despite the constant rain, the cold and the general uncertainty of their future fate, the two of them are visibly in high spirits, out of relief, certainly, but irritating nonetheless.

Their jolly chatter goes from the detailed and gleeful description of Tallmadge's painful defeat to obnoxious bragging about their kills at Stony Point, of which- to their great regret- they seem to have lost count.

When listening to them, one might think, they just won the war all by themselves, instead of having been rescued from a hopeless situation at the last minute.

 _Men_. Their foolishness really seems to know no bounds. Marian shudders, and the man behind her tightens his grip around her, likely assuming she is cold. Which she is. But also deeply unsettled.

She believed him dead and that her own life ended with his, but now, only a few hours in his company are enough to make her want to kill him personally, if she is forced to listen to one more word in this self-rightous, arrogant tone.

How can fate be so cruel? If there really is a god, Marian thinks, sitting somewhere in his lofty hights, he must have a perverted pleasure in watching her right now.Which is of little surprise, assuming that he too, is a man.

Now, how will I entertain myself today? A yes, there's that girl who already lost her family and her home, let me see, what could I do to her next? How about invoking an inexplicable obsession for a _really_ bad guy on her, the most stubborn and loathsome man I can find, and watch how she gets herself in trouble for him time and time again? Yes, should be fun.

And if that's not enough, let's give her an employer on top of that, who takes abnormal delight in lies and intrigues.

Because one thing is certain, Andé lied to her about Simcoe's death- as he apparently lied to Simcoe about her relationship to Tallmadge- and most likely for the same reason.

And he was successful in both cases. Peggy is not the only victim of this man's wicked schemes. He pulls all their strings at the same time, like the skilled puppetmaster he is, and now they are dancing to his tune. One more man, Marian wishes straight to hell right now.

And John- in his typical attitude to mistrust and always believe the worst about everyone, and _especially_ when it comes to her- has not doubted Andrè' s word for a second. How easily men are to believe that a woman is deceitful- a slut and a whore, just because another man claims it-

I hate them all, Marian thinks fervently, and most of all, I hate _you_.

Another shower of rain blows into her face and she shivers against the body of the man behind her and eventually, it seems to occur to him, that it might be a good idea to find shelter for the night. He turns to his second next to him. "Any idea where we are?" Akinbode takes a look around in the darkness and shakes his head. "No sir." Neither of them seem overly concerned.

They make their horses trot into the woods and after a while, find something that looks like a deserted cabin, the most humble cottage imaginable in fact, but a roof to keep off the rain nonetheless. The men dismount and approach the hovel carefully with loaded guns, but there is no sign of inhabitants, friend or foe, dead or alive. Marian for her part wouldn't care, if this was the home of an evil witch of the woods, right now she would sell her soul to the devil himself for a dry place.

Simcoe and Akinbode talk quietly and seem to agree, that there is no danger and Simcoe helps her dismount and she follows him into the cabin, while Akinbode stays outside to lash the horses to a tree.

The hovel has a fireplace, but it looks like it has been cold for a while, and the small room in the back even provides a bed, a _single_ bed to be specific, not exactly big, but with a blanket on it even, which Simcoe shakes out and carefully checks for bedbugs, before he seats himself on the bed and begins to unbutton his jacket.

Marian watches him with an incredulous frown. Surely he couldn't be so cruel not to leave the bed to her?

"What are you doing?" she adresses him for the first time since they left the rebel camp, when he takes off his boots and seems to get ready to undress even further.

He looks at her, as if this was the most stupid question to ask. "What does it look like? Getting out of those wet clothes, to start with." he says airily and raises his eyebrows at her rain-soaked cloak. "I suggest, you do the same."

He has unbuttoned his waistcoat and arrived at his shirt and pants when she still stands there without having done much more than removing her cloak. Marian bites her lip. "A gentleman would leave the only bed in the room to a lady," she tries.

He stops in his movements and seems to consider this. "Aren't we beyond this stage by now?" he replies at last and looks up at her from wide, bright-blue eyes. "Surely this bed is big enough for two."

Marian gulps."Where's Akinbode?" John pulls the shirt over his head, allowing her a look at his pale, muscular torso, covered all over with curly red hair and several scars and bruises- old and new. "Out in the woods to find wood for a fire-" he shrugs. "And perhaps some unlucky animal for breakfast. Either way, he shouldn't be back anytime soon." And with that, he wraps himself up in the blanket and and turns to the wall with a complacent groan.

 

 _Very well_.

Marian sits down on the other side of the bed and curls herself up at the very edge of it. The room may be dry but it's still anything but warm, and in her dress almost as wet as her cloak she can't stop shivering.

It takes him a minute or two, until he can't pretend any longer not to notice her quivering, and he turns around with a sigh and wraps her up in the blanket. She hears his indignant grunt when he notices the wetness of her dress and then feels his hands in her back, as he begins to untie her bodice. His fingers are warm as they always are ( and really, how can anyone manage to be so warm always? ) and her skin seems to come to life wherever he touches her, warm like a hot bath, like a fireplace, melting away her resistance as effortlessly as ice in the sun.

"Weren't you angry at me?" she asks.

"Oh, I am. Not angry enough to watch you freeze to death, though" he adds and frowns, when his efforts to untie her dress take longer than is acceptable. "Still angry enough to rip that thing to pieces, if this takes any longer, so you'll have to stay in this bed for good," he growls and pauses before he buries his hands into the fabrics as if to tear it apart. "On second thought, I think I would prefer that option."

"No, please!" Marian jumps to her feet and hurries to get rid of her dress, before he can walk the talk. On the run or not, she can't afford to ruin another dress. "Would be too much of an effort for a skinny rebel whore any way."

He watches her undress with dark eyes, his face leaning on the palm of his hand. "You know why I said that," he says, sounding less remorseful than satisfied that his words hit their aim. "We wouldn't have wanted Tallmadge to get the wrong ideas, would we?"

"How considerate of you, sir." she says dryly.

"Can't help it," He shrugs and gives her a sly smile. "Never think of myself."

Marian pulls her dress over her head and slouches her shoulders. "Why do we have to do this every time?" she asks helplessly.

He raises his brows. "Do what, pray tell?"

"Hurt each other with words whenever we talk."

"I don't know." he replies, genuinely surprised. "Well, here's the solution, let's just stop talking." He reaches out and pulls her to him in one smooth motion.

Alright, then. Not that anything she could say, true or untrue, let alone _sarcastic_ , would ever make much of a difference. His feelings about her are clear; and most likely he curses fate for drawing him to her just as much as she does in reverse.

But it matters not. His hands are rough, as are his lips and his unshaven face, and he has bathed in nothing but blood, sweat and rain for days, but she wants nothing more than to wrap herselp up in him, dive into him like into a warm pool.

Is it any wonder he must consider her a whore? She has never been much recitent towards him, and if she is easy for him, why wouldn't she be for any other man? And isn't that exactly the way a man must think, all the more a man of this time? Her wild abandon to him is absolute and unconditional, judging from how she opens up to him at his slightest touch, and while this delights him and stirs his desire, it proves him right about her unchastity all the same.

But it matters not. He can have her on any condition, as long as he wants her.

 

They are both trembling now, and not from the cold. He presses her against him and tears his mouth from hers to slide his lips down her neck and collarbone, around the curve of her breasts and her nipples, sucking and biting them not all too gently, before he pushes her on her back and pursues the trail of his lips down her belly and then- after a small pause and a calculating look at her face-opens her thighs with a determined inhale and buries his head right between them.

Marian's eyes fly open and she utters a surprised cry as her cheeks burn hot at the unexpected- and most disturbing sensation. Whatever he thinks he is doing there, she is sure, this cannot be any kind of proper way of lovemaking. It is way too strange and way too- well- _undignified_.

It is _amazing_.

She hears herself moan like in utmost need and struggles against him but he only tightens his grip and opens her even more for him while her thighs are shaking violently against his hands.

Marian presses her eyes shut as she feels herself floating helplessly down a pushing, wet stream, rushing through rapids towards a giant waterfall. The hot pressure building up inside her belly is about to overbear her and she reaches down and clutches his hair with both hands, pulling so hard, that he emits a cry of pain and lifts his head to look up to her.

"What is it? Want me to stop?"

Marian gasps out a breathless laugh. _Stop? Is the man mad?_

Attentively, he watches her face, her cheeks reddened, eyes veiled with lust. " _Well_ -?"

Marian grits her teeth. "No."

His face turns blank. "Beg me then."

" _What_ -?" She blinks and looks at him in incredulous horror, but she can tell by the look on his face, that he is dead serious about it.

It is clear what this is about. It is the pettiest kind of revenge. A punishment for something she hasn't even done. She could argue the converse a thousand times over and scream at him: _I have not deserved this!_ like a desperate Desdemona at a- much paler but no less furiously jelous- Othello- it would not help her at all.

His pride has been hurt, his ridiculuos manly honour, and since he cannot kill his alleged rival in love, he has to take it out on her now instead. It doesn't matter that she's innocent. It had not saved Desdemona either.

 

Very well. She will do no such thing, not as long as there is any spark of dignity left in her. He shrugs and climbs onto her, pinning her to the bed with his body, his eyes sinking into hers. Marian turns her head away from his wild stare."God, I hate you so much, " she whispers fiercely. He smiles and slightly shakes his head. "No, you don't. But that's not what I asked."

He spins her around roughly, and on her knees, making her grab the bedpost for balance before he clutches her hips and thrusts into her, hard, with a groan of pleasure. 

She is wet enough from his previous treatment to make him slip right in and fill her completely, then he waits. His hands slide across her hips, her back, his lips brush her ear. "Say it."

On the verge of tears, Marian bites her lip, while a million phantasies of how to end his life in the most painful and humiliating way possible float through her mind. Smash his head with a rock to wipe this hateful smirk off his face. Cut his throat and watch him drown in his own blood. He would have to fall asleep eventually. But for now-

"Please-" she whispers. "Please _what_?" His right hand squeezes her breast, and the other finds his way between her thighs, caressing her there ever so softly.

No. A cut throat is way too merciful. Marian moans and arches her back against him. "Please don't stop."

He smiles and playfully bites her earlobe. "There you go. Wasn't so hard, was it?"

And it wasn't actually. Or at least, not as hard as waiting any moment longer for release from the unbearable tension that is threatening to tear her apart. And there's no dignity left in her to even try and stop herselp from crying out loud at every violent thrust, at every deliberate touch of his fingers, and he doesn't stop until he is sure, she can't take no more and they collapse next to each other, gasping for breath, their hearts racing, their bodies covered in sweat and their own fluids, fully and utterly spent.

 

With his hunger satisfied, his desire to bully her seems to have vanished as well, for he wraps her up into the blanket carefully and holds her against him in what could be called a loving embrace.

His fingers run lazily through her hair and he places soft kisses on her lips, her hot cheeks and closed eyelids, every inch a caring lover after a tender night of love. His lips brushing hers, he asks: "Are you- _pleased_?" And when she nods against his neck he adds - in his inimitable manner to destroy even the most perfect moment- "I bet, Tallmadge couldn't provide as much."

Marian has already opened her mouth to a harsh reply, when it returns to her mind that he wouldn't believe anything she says apart from his own convictions. Her face against his neck, she breathes him in. How is it possible, that someone so bad could smell so good?

She releases her breath with a sigh. "No," she tells him what he wants to hear.

He rolls on his back and she leans her head against his broad chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. After a while, when she feels like drifting into sleep, she opens her eyes and sees him watch the ceiling, lost in thoughts. "Aren't you tired?" she moans and when he doesn't reply immediately, she adds with a yawn. "What are you pondering about?"

Looking down on her, as if he would come aware of her presence only now, he replies blankly: " _Abigail_."

Marian sighs and leans on her elbow to look at his face. "Even a blockhead like you should know, it is not very polite to call the woman you just made love to by another name."

Simcoe grimaces in a pained way, as he always does when she tries to make a joke. "I assume, Tallmadge found you funny," he says dryly.

Marian releases her breath with an angry little snort. " Indeed he did."

"Why, I'm not surprised, " her lover replies airily. "But I guess, he isn't laughing anymore now. And you're not going back to him any way."

"Am I not? Didn't you promise him to send me back-well- _unmolested_?" Marian asks flippantly.

He curls his lips into a wicked smile. "It's too late for that now, isn't it? And it would mean to endanger you, on top of that."

Marian watches him carefully. "You think he didn't believe me? But-but he must have believed that you were able to hurt me. And certainly he believed Abigail-"

He looks at her from wide eyes. " _Precisely_ my point. He believed Abigail. But why?"

Marian frowns and shakes her head. "That's- ridiculous. She saved your life!"

"Oh no, not mine. She did that for _Akinbode_." He sits up and looks at her intently. "Don't you see? Only a handful of people knew about the planned attack on Middlebrook. André was one of them. And then there _she_ is, a servant of a British officer and a rebel officer doesn't doubt her word for even a second? Isn't that suspicious, tell me?"

Marian shakes her head. "Impossible. Abigail is loyal to André- she _likes_ him, I'm sure of it."

She lifts her head, when a sudden thought crosses her mind. "By the way, who told you I was-engaged to Tallmadge in the first place? Was it André?"

When he bites his lips and refuses to answer her question right away, she nods her head and says: "See? That's all part of his plan. I thought you were dead because he sent me a letter telling me you were killed by rebel outlaws-"

He furrows his brow. "Nonsense. Why would he do that?"

"Why, indeed? Ask yourself. He wanted me to believe you were dead, just like he wanted you to believe I was going to marry Tallmadge, which, by the way, I never was- I _know_ you don't believe me" she adds bitterly and to her great embarrassment feels tears climbing up in her throat again.

 

"Stop," he says firmly and grasps her wrists. "No more talking now. We'll talk about all this tomorrow."

He pins her arms over her head and rolls himself onto her. "You're not going back to Tallmadge, that much is certain." he says darkly. "You're _mine_."

He lowers his lips towards hers. "And I'm not in the mood right now to think about what André might want" he adds in a fierce whisper. "Let's talk about what _I_ want."

 

He presses his hardness against her and she feels her belly immediately respond with a wistful throb.

Would it ever stop to be this way, Marian thinks with a defeated sigh. That she could only feel whole with him beside her, no, with him _inside_ her, to be exact?

"But Akinbode-" she says in a poor, last attempt to resist. He smiles and softly pushes her thighs open with his upper leg. "As I said, he won't be back anytime soon, " he assures her and shoves himself into her again. "I told him to take his time."

For a moment, Marian feels a pang of guilt at the thought of Akinbode wandering through the nightly woods in pouring rain for hours, in favour of them indulding in their shameless pleasure, before she is again unable to feel anything but exactly this for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting close to the end of this story, only two more chapters! As always, thanks so much for reading and all the support! This is my first ever fanfiction and I would have never expected it to get 1k+ clicks so wow! Thanks so much, you're the best audience ever ♥


	17. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! This chapter is going to be overly long and terribly kitschy! Anyways, thanks for reading!

The rainfalls had stopped during the night, and the new morning dawns with tentative sunrays peering through the small window and illuminating the cabin which, on closer inspection, looks even more miserable than it did the night before.

Marian awakes ( they _had_ slept eventually, albeit not much ) to find the side of the bed next to her empty. Feeling a chill running over her, she wraps the worn blanket tighter around her.Truth be told, she feels every bit as battered as could be expected after a night like this.

_"Good morning!"_

The door creaks open to the sight of her tireless lover in his insufferable, cheerful morning- mood. Considering the circumstances, he looks irritatingly fresh and rested, seemingly unscathed by their nightly activities.

Seating himself on the bed next to her, John pulls the blanket from her tousled hair and watches her with a knowing smile. "Time to get up." he says gleefully. "It's a beautiful morning. I found a small stream only a few paces away, I'll show it to you if you want a bath, it's really quite lovely."

With a pained groan, Marian pulls the blanket back over her head and turns to the other side of the bed.

"A nice place this is, to be sure. I could imagine to stay here for a little longer, alas, since we are still on the run-now _come o_ n, " he bends down and wraps his arms around her. "Or I'll have to carry you out." he whispers against her ear." You know, I would do it."

"Alright, " she sighs at last. "At least, give me the chance to get dressed." She tries to get up with the blanket still wrapped around her. Her head feels hot and heavy, like from a serious hangover, but that cannot be. As far as she remembers, she had hardly more than two glasses of wine at dinner with Peggy, Arnold and Tallmadge. Was that really only yesterday night? It already feels like a distant memory, an eternity ago.

John watches her efforts with a heartening smile. " There you go! Akinbode has something roasting on the skewer for breakfast, I believe." He pauses and frowns. "I'm not exactly sure, _what_ is is, but it smells delicious, doesn't it? Anyway, beggars can't be choosers and certainly I'm too hungry to care."

Once Marian is on her feet, he pulls her into a warm embrace and a long, passionate kiss that makes her legs turn to jelly so she reels against him. "I'm never going to make it this way, you know " she says breathlessly, when he lets go of her mouth at last. He blinks and, reluctantly, releases her. "Fine. I'll be waiting outside, then." "Yes, yes, " she murmers and shoves him towards the door.

 

When he's gone, she casts a last, wistful glance at the bed, before she struggles to put her dress back on, an effort, which is not made easier by the fact, that the garment is still uncomfortably damp and stiff.

Sighing, Marian rubs her aching temples . Considering how she feels, she doesn't even want to think about what she must _look_ like, but luckily the hovel isn't furnished with something so luxurious as mirrors.

 

To his credit, John had not lied. It _is_ a beautiful morning, all fresh, clean air after the rain and joyful birds' twittering, the sunlight almost too bright to bear.

The men are outside and standing around a makeshift spit on which something that might in happier times have been a ferret, stews in its own juices, and it takes her only a quick glance at the miserable creature to know she would have to be _a whole lot_ hungrier to eat something like _this._

She nods briefly at Akinbode and he gives her a broad grin in return, which indicates he has a pretty good idea what the two of them had been doing all night.

Bending down to hide the telltale flush burning on her cheeks, Marian reaches for the empty water tubes on the ground. "I'll go and fetch some water." she mumbles. " Don't wait for me with breakfast."

"Don't go too far, " Simcoe's voice warns in her back- and quite unnessessarily so, the murmur of the creek can be heard clearly only a few paces away.

 

Which is fortunate, because Marian doesn't feel at all in the condition for a long walk. The lightheaded feeling has not left her and her legs are shaky. It takes her only a few minutes to find the stream but she is already out of breath when she gets there, her heart is pounding like after a fast run and something like an angry bee is humming in her chest.

She kneels down at the slope and holds her hands to the stream, carefully avoiding to look too close at her own reflection- which is likely no beautiful sight to behold, no need for further confirmation.

The water is colder than expected, but she forces herself to wash at least her face. She _could_ use a full bath, no doubt about that, but the mere thought of it is enough to give her the chills and the cold water on her face alone pricks like needles.

Marian groans. This is _really_ not a good time to fall ill, but obviously this is what is happening- you need not be a doctor to know and she _is_ one.

To ride down a bumpy forest road in wild gallop would be bad enough, but with a headache like this- well, if she had her doctor's case, she would be able to make a tea from lime blossoms and willow bark. But she has left it in the rebel camp, being the last thing to worry about last night.

She sighs again, fills the water tubes and takes a few deep draughts, as greedily as if it was the finest madeira. The cold water makes her stomach clench. She lets herself sink into the still damp grass and closes her eyes against the glaring sun.

 

Last night, John said they would continue their conversation today, but she doubts it.

If he believes what she told him about André's schemes or not, it doesn't matter in the end- he would likely not admit it, if it were so, let alone _apologize_ to her.

The espace plan has been successful, his pride is restored-  and that's that.

That she can't go back to camp, or even to live with the Shippens, because her role in their little drama aroused suspicion, is her problem, not his.

And why should he bother? He had made his opinion on her spying career quite clear, hadn't he? Had thought it a foolish idea from the start. He must be happy the matter has quasi resolved itself now.

Would he again ask her to marry him, Marian wonders. Probably not. Why buy the cow when the milk is already his?

Whichever way she looks at it, by saving His Ungratefulness from captivity, she has again catapulted herself right back to where she started from, her future being as uncertain as always.

 

And still. Remembering last night in all its sinful bliss makes it impossible for her to regret what she did, or be really unhappy. _That_ 's what they have- if not much else. It is something- a wonderful something, she can't imagine to live without any longer at that- but it's not enough.

 

If only she wasn't so weary. A little more sleep should solve the problem, that's it. An hour or two couldn't be too much to ask surely?

Carefully, Marian staggers on her feet. Trees, stream sky and sunrays are spinning and dancing around her eyes. She takes the water pipes and totters her way back to the hovel.

"I'm going back to bed." she announces in a tone that leaves no space for contradiction. Ignoring the concerned glances of the men, she drops the tubes, steps into the hut and lets the door fall shut behind her.

 

 

Akinbode looks at the closed door, then back to his captain. He clears his throat."Why, she does look a little groggy, doesn't she?" he says cautiously.

Simcoe meets his gaze from icy blue eyes, trying to fathom if his second's concerned words concealed a possible critizism.

Is he right? Had he been too rough with her? At times, when she makes him angry- which she does more often than not- he tends to forget how fragile she really is...

He shrugs."It's been a long night. And we haven't seen each other in quite a while-" he replies, sounding defensive rather than casual as intended.

He gets up and makes as if to turn the spit. On closer look, it cannot be denied that the creature on it bears a conspicious resemblance with a certain cabbage farmer from Setauket...Oh, how he would have loved to see Woodhull sizzling on a spit like this! Enticing as the idea is, it isn't exactly appetizing.

"She'll be fine." he says airily, with more confidence than he really feels." A few more hours shouldn't matter. And as it is, " he goes on, remembering that offense is still the best defence, " I need to talk to you about something." He turns his disgusted gaze from the animal on the spit to his second. " _Abigail_."

It is fascinating how only saying her name always has the effect of bringing an outright delighted smile on Akinbode's stern features.

"She's a brave girl" his second says, beaming with pride. "Oh yes." He nods. "You're one lucky man. And what a lucky coincidence, too, she was in the right place at the right time."

Akinbode looks up at him, alerted by the sudden shift in his voice. " _We_ were very lucky, yes" he says slowly.

"Have you never wondered, why she kept working for André so long?" Simcoe continues in a light tone." I mean, I know, it was Hewlett who sent her there in the first place," he adds, when he sees Akinbode's frown. " But she would have been free to leave any time, wouldn't she?"

Akinbode shrugs uncomfortably. "As I said before, she seems to like it there. It's a good job I guess. Well paid, too. She has a son to care for, after all- what else should she do?"

"Oh I don't know," Simcoe sits back next to him. " Marry you? Start a family? Whatever women usually do. I know you're fond of her boy, and she obviously loves you enough to help you escape from the rebel camp-"

He stops talking when he sees Akinbode raise an eyebrow and it occurs to him that the same is true for Marian and that she, same as Abigail, isn't eager for marriage.

"I think, she doesn't much like me being a Queen's Ranger," Akinbode admits in a low voice.

Simcoe looks up, attentively. "Why wouldn't she? You're a soldier in service of our King. Or perhaps-" he lowers his voice. "Perhaps it is _exactly this_ what she doesn't like about it?"

Akinbode meets his eyes, he looks confused. "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, what I want to say is this- and believe me, I have been racking my brain about it for hours-have you ever considered, your Abigail might have agreed to work for André for some other reason?"

Akinbode holds his breath. "Like what?"

"Provide information? For the Continental army? It would have been easy for her to gain access to strategic information- there were only a handful of people who knew about the planned attack on Middlebrook and André was one of them- and she can obviously travel unrestricted from one side to another. Who would suspect her, a mere servant, a woman at that? And more importantly, she was well known to Tallmadge, I'm sure of it."

 

Akinbode's eyes have grown wide. More or less unintendedly, he has begun to slid away from his captain on the ground. "Tallmadge is from Setauket, same as she and I, that's where he knows her from." he suggests.

"Ah, but how well could they really have known each other, a former slave and a preacher's son? Well enough for him to rely on her word alone, without further question?"

Vehemently, Akinbode shakes his head.

"You're wrong, Captain." he insists. "Not Abigail."

Simcoe watches him intently. "Why, I _wish_ I was wrong, believe me, " he says softly. " But I think, I'm not. And you know quite well, my instincts have led me on the right track more often than not."

Akinbode straightens his shoulders and returns his gaze, his jaw clenched. "And I say you're _wrong_ here, sir." he repeats with defiant stubbornness. "But even if you were _not_ -" he doesn't let his captain outstare him for once, but keeps his dark eyes locked into his bright ones, burning with determination. "I wouldn't ever allow anyone to harm her, for no reason in the world."

"No?" Simcoe raises a brow and curls his lips into a faint smile. "What would you do then? Kill me?" Akinbode's gaze doesn't waver. "If I must."

Simcoe holds his gaze for another moment, then he nods and to his second's utter surprise, leans forward and pats the other man's back. "Correct answer." he replies airily, as if all this was just another test. "And I even think, of all men, you actually _could._ Kill me, that is. Still I hope it won't come to this. Not only because you are my friend, but because you are my _only_ friend. Now- let's see if our breakfast is ready at last."

He gets up to inspect the spit, leaving Akinbode speechless with amazement once more.

 

 

Once her body hits the bed, Marian, still fully dressed, drifts into a restless sleep again. It seems painfully clear that she is _not_ fine, even to her over- optimistic lover, who tries to wake her two hours later, determined to leave and get themselves into safety.

Simcoe frowns in concern when his attempts to wake her up prove to be unsuccessful.

This is not a safe place. They would have to reach a British garrison but there are none in close vicinity as far as he knows, only a few small hamlets, and he doesn't know the area well enough to be able to rule out the possibility of those being rebel-friendly.

However, Marian is clearly in no condition to travel, let alone on horseback. The skin of her forehead is dry and hot to the touch, her eyes, when she opens them at last, are glassy with fever and she doesn't even try and pretend to be able to do anything apart from sleeping.

"You could have ripped that dress off me after all, " she croaks in a weak attempt to joke. "For I don't think I'm going to leave this bed any time soon."

Well, the fever doesn't help to improve her sense of humour, that's for sure, but he forces himself to a smile. "You'll be better soon, don't worry." he whispers in what he hopes is a reassuring tone." I'll find a doctor. Just go back to sleep."

He bends over her and softly kisses her glowing forehead, before he leaves the hut.

 

Akinbode waits for him outside, alarmed by his worried expression. "Is she-?" Simcoe nods. "Sick, yes. Some kind of fever, I believe. She must have caught it in the cold yesterday. That cursed rain-" he clenches his jaw. "At any rate, she cannot travel like that. I'll ride to the next village and look for a doctor."

Akinbode nods. "Something I can do?" Simcoe orders him to sit by her bed and watch over her. "Cold compresses on her face, when she's hot. Keep her warm when she's cold. Make her drink." He shrugs his shoulders helplessly, before he turns to the horses, who are grazing lazily beneath a huge oak tree."I wouldn't know what else to do, but anyway, I'll be right back."

He readies his horse and galops away through the trees.

 

 

An hour passes, then another. Her fever rises. Not knowing if she's awake or sleeping, Marian tosses and turns on the bed, drifting from one feverish dream into the next.

The outlines of the room around her start to blur and dissolve into dust. She can smell it now, too. Hear it. The crackle of flames from a huge fire. She can feel the heat coming from it, it's wrapping her up like a cloak of hot, smothering smoke. Marian struggles herself free from her blankets, as a fit of dry coughing shakes her.

She opens her eyes and she's no longer lying in the bed of the hovel, but standing on something like a marketplace, surrounded by strangers in odd, old-fashioned clothing, farmers mostly, but also some in better robes, men, women and children, all of them starring in gory excitement at the big campfire in the middle of the town sqare.

No, not a campfire. A _stake_.

And there's a person tied to it, a haggard-faced old woman. Black pitch drips from her shabby gown and the grey hair that's hanging loosely around her pale face and her eyes are huge and bright with the terrible knowledge of what's to come. They are going to _burn_ her.

The flames are already reaching her bare feet on the stake and Marian watches her mouth gape open in a soundless cry of pain. She wants to scream as well, wants to run, but neither can she move her feet nor make a single sound. _I'm dreaming_ , she realizes in utter relief.

 

_No, you're not._

The old woman at the stake has not uttered a word, but Marian knows beyond doubt, that it is her voice she hears in her head. This cannot be real. Is no one here going to help her? No one at all?

She looks around in panic until her eyes come to rest on a middle- aged man, a wealthy gentleman judging by his clothes,who watches the gruesome spectacle with an air of grim satisfaction. He looks vaguely familiar, reminds her of someone she knows, but she couldn't tell who it is.

 

_It's alright. You cannot help me. This has already taken place_.

The anguished cries of the woman on the stake grow louder as the flames start to lick upwards her legs, and further up, adding the sickening smell of burnt flesh to the smoke-filled air. Marian presses her eyes shut in order to block out the dreadful scene, but to her horror, the picture won't go away.

The burning woman turns her bright eyes directly at her. _Look.This is your history_.

"No, please, no, I can't-" Marian shakes her head violently and forces her eyes down to the ground. But to her horror, what she sees are the flames greedily licking at her own naked calves, now. It is _her_ at the stake. The pain is beyond description.

The murmur of the crowd rises to a hateful crescendo. _Burn the witch! Burn the witch! Burn the witch-_

 

Marian opens her mouth to an anguished cry- and swallows water. Where there was smothering heat before, it is now frightfully cold. She is drifting underwater, her dress floating around her body like a sail.

Fish pass her by and watch her with pitiless curiousity from their cold, bright eyes, before they continue their path, unperturbed. Above her, beneath her and all around her nothing but a cold, silent eternity of blue.

_I'm drowning_.

Something lightly brushes her side and she sees another body drifting there, a small body in fact, a child.

Starled, Marian gasps and inhaling a gush of water, she finds to her utter surprise that she is able to breathe. The little boy in front of her curls his blueish lips into a smile. "Funny, isn't it?"

His blond hair looks almost green underwater and floats around his head like a crown of seaweed. But then his smile fades and he gives her a look from a pair of deep-blue eyes she knows only too well. "But _cold, so cold_." he says in a whiny little voice.

"Do I know you?" Marian asks in wonderment. She wished, she could reach out and hug the little boy, share whatever body warmth they still have, but her limbs are as useless as they were before, her body helplessly carried by the current like a piece of wreckage.

"You can't do that," the boy says, somewhat regretfully. "You're not really here, you know. And anyway, I have to go now."

He smiles, before he turns around with an artful salto and swims away from her as quickly as a fish, leaving her alone in the cold, and to a feeling of utter loneliness that brings tears to her eyes.

_Home_. Marian thinks. Oh, how I want to go home.

 

She blinks through her tears as the scene blurs and dissolves again and there she is, back in her house in England, a little girl in a light, frilled dress, with white stockings and tiny little shoes.

Her father is there, too, sitting in a chair by the big marital bed, his frame bowed down with grief, his face frozen to a terrified grimace, his shoulders quivering in soundless cries.

The air in the room is rich with a sickly sweet, coppery smell, and the source of that stench lies stretched out on the bed- a beautiful woman all in white, from her lifeless face under her lace trimmed bonnet down to the milky skin of her neck and arms in her nightgown, all of it of a pure, unstained white, white as the sheets beneath her, while everything from down to her belly is a cloud of lurid crimson, so shockingly and obscenely red against all the white that it hurts the eye just to look at it.

Despite the enormous amount of blood, which makes the room look like a crime scene, where her mother has been slaughtered in a manic act of brutal violence, her face looks as peaceful and tranquil as a Madonna's, but Marian has the unmistakable feeling that she might open her eyes and come back to life any moment- not as a loving mother though, but as something horrid and vengeful- and she is almost lightheaded with relief when she is finally able to move and run towards the door and out of the house, anywhere, just away from this.

 

Once she has slammed the front door shut behind her, the scene changes again and instead of the garden in front of the house, she finds herself on a big square in a military camp, a rebel camp to be precise, according to the blue-coated soldiers standing in rank and file around the gallows. Not Middlebrook. _West Point_ , a voice whispers in her head.

Marian hears a drum roll and a firm and pleasant voice, a familiar voice, that says: "God is my witness that I meet my fate like a brave man."

She casts a quick glance around and recognizes some of the men standing around the gallows, Benjamin Tallmadge, Caleb Brewster, even General Washington himself. This is not something that has already happened, she realizes with a sudden shiver, this is a _vision_ \- but if of an inevitable event or a warning of a possible future, she cannot tell.

John André- because none other is the condemned man- is a high ranked British officer and yet it looks like he's going to be hanged like a common spy. How is that possible? He pulls the blindfold from his eyes and searches the crowd and when Marian already thinks he would see her, a woman moves forward, her beautiful face almost grey with grief, her eyes burning from uncried tears, her hand cramped around a braid; the only memento she has left from her former lover.

_Oh Peggy._ Marian thinks. Should this be the way your carelessly uttered whish will be granted in the end?

 

 

She closes her eyes as the executioner begins to fulfil his sad duty. She cannot bear to witness any more dying. If the dead have come to greet her in order to welcome her in their midst, she is ready to die right now,  if it means she no longer has to see any of this.

The scenery fades and, opening her eyes in expectation of the next horrid vision, she is surprised to see Akinbode sitting at her bedside. He is talking to her, too, or rather, to himself, according to the absent look on his face, and in light of what he's saying.

"He cannot suspect her, not really, right?" he says in a fierce whisper. "She saved us, didn't she? Both of you did. It's that god damn Culper who's driving him mad, that's what all this is about. He will not, he _cannot_ stop, until he finds him."

Marian thinks of the small man with the woollen beanie, to whom Anna had been talking in Whitehall's garden. " _No one will ever know about Culper_." she had said." _The ring will be safe. You will be safe."_

_"Culper?"_ she says and her voice sounds as raspy as the scratching of a quill on dry parchment to her ears. "But I know who he is-" Akinbode looks up, startled but relieved to see her regain her consciousness. "Miss Marian-" he says breathlessly. "Are you alright? Is there anything I can get you-?" but by then, sleep has overcome her once more.

 

 

When Simcoe returns an hour later, it is in the company of a short, stout man, whose expression leaves no doubt about the unpleasant fact that he has been brought here by violent means- or at least, the threat of it.

"Doctor-Merryweather, was it?" introduces Simcoe in a grim voice when he sees Akinbode's questioning glance. "Why, he refused to give me anything, before he was able to see to the patient himself, isn't that right?" he says to the man and shoves him forwards not too gently. "Which left me no choice but to take him with me."

Doctor Merryweather, by all appearances a righteous puritan, is obviously all but happy to be dragged out into the woods by a brute in tattered militia regimentals, but he holds his life dearer than his dignity.

He reaches for his doctor's case and says in a flat voice: "Where is the patient?" "In there," Simcoe tells him, before he grabs the man by the collar of his coat and burns his wide- eyed stare into his. " And I suggest, you do your _very_ best, for your own benefit, doctor. If she dies, I assure you, you will regret having met me."

"I regret that already, believe me." the man replies dryly and jerks himself free from his grip.

He enters the hovel to take a look at his patient, a girl in a dress too costly and revealing for his taste, but now crinkled and soaked in sweat. A woman of easy virtue most likely, probably the whore of that big, red- haired devil who captured him, or even- God forbid- the both of them, but he has no choice but to do the work the Lord has imposed on him.

 

"Brain fever, " he informs the men outside, after finishing his medical examination. " I get to see that a lot these days. The symptoms are not much unlike influenza, but it's the brain, not the lungs, which is affected. It's an illness usually brought about by a severe emotional upset."

He wipes his forehead with a handkerchief and shrugs. "The outcome, however, is uncertain. The patient is young- a little underweight perhaps, but not uncommonly so, especially in times of war. Once the fever declines, the crisis will be conquered. But-" and here he casts a stern glance at the captain, "She needs _rest_. Any kind of- _excitement_ must be avoided at all costs. Invigorating food will help, too. I'll ask my wife to make a chicken soup to regain her strength."

"Thank you, doctor, " the ruffian replies in a soft and unexpectedly humble voice. He reaches inside his coat's pocket and produces a purse, clinking with coins. "For your efforts. I'll see you tomorrow, then."

The doctor nods grimly and mounts his horse. "Remember. No excitement." he says instead of a farewell.

 

 

Once he's gone, Simcoe seats himself in front of the fire and buries his head in his hands."It's all my fault." he murmurs under his breath. When he looks up, his eyes are red.

"Did she say anything?" he asks in a hoarse voice. "No, sir." Akinbode replies without hesitation. "Nothing of importance."

Simcoe nods and exhales sharply. "Listen," he starts. "I've been thinking. Once Marian is better, we will return to New York. André needs to hear my report. And I- I need to regather the Queen's Rangers."

"Of course, sir."

Simcoe's eyes meet his. "But you won't come with me. I want you to get Abigail and leave the country."

He lifts his hand, when he sees his second open his mouth to object. "That's an _order_ , Akinbode. I dismiss you from my service, honourably of course. Remember what you told me about your future plans, after the war? Well, the time for that has now come. Take Abigail and _leave_. Convince her to go with you and I- I promise, I won't pursue my- suspicion towards her, nor will I ask where you're going. My only condition is-" he pauses, swallowing hard, looking at his fingers which are drumming rapidly against his legs until he forces them to stop.

"My only condition is," he continues. "that you take Marian with you. You heard the doctor. _Severe emotional upset. No excitement_." he says with a bitter smile. "God knows, I'd do anything for her, _anything at all_ , but the truth is, I have only ever treated her bad. I wanted to protect her, but in fact it was her who saved me all over again. She deserves better than what I could give her, I know that now. And if I have to let her go in order not to lose her- "

He wipes his eyes and looks up at his second again. "Take her with you." he repeats. "Don't tell me or anyone where you're going. I cannot save her, but you can. Will you do that for me my friend? Will you follow that last command I give you? Will you save her- _from me?_ "

 

Akinbode's feels how his eyes burn with tears now, too. "I will, Captain, " he promises.

"Good man, " Simcoe says. He reaches out as if to hug him, then thinks better of it and awkwardly slaps him on the back instead. "Good man." He gets up and walks to his horse and rifles through his saddlebags to produce a bottle of gin he bought at the village. "Then let's drink to that."

 

 

 

_New York, one month later_

 

Marian is standing by the window and looks down at the street below. Today is the day she will leave this place, and _for good_. She cannot believe that this is, what is really going to happen, but it is.

Down on the street, people are attending to their business like it was any other day. 

A bulky, scruffy looking man, one of his eyes covered with a patch that makes him look like a pirate, is holding a reluctant woman in a pretty dress by the arm and talks insistently to her. She cannot hear the words, nor does she care.

Her lover is lying on his back on the bed where she left him, his hands behind his head, his eyes staring at the ceiling. It is the very bed in the small room in Rivington's corner, where they made love in for the first time, and now, as it seems, for the _last_ time as well.

 

If they say doctors are the worst patients, this cannot be said of her, but then again, she had a very caring and attentive nurse.

John had brought her back here and devoted himself to the task of nursing her back to health in his own meticulous, overzealous way, bringing her medicine according to her advice and everything else according to her wishes.

For the first time in his career off- duty without being forced to for recovery from injuries, he hardly ever left her bedside like a loyal guard dog, and strictly ordered her to consume not only a variety of teas and restoratives, but also full meals at least three times a day as if to fatten her up like a christmas goose.

As soon as her recovery begun to proceed to his satisfaction, he left his place on her bedside to join her inside it for chaste hugs and kisses- and not so chaste ones, once it was clear she was over the worst.

But even then, he was tender, careful and caring. They did not talk much and she was content with it.

All in all, the weeks of her recovery were pretty much the best of Marian's life.

 

Until John told her he intended to send her away.

The reasons he set out for his decision were plausible and hard to contradict.

She couldn't stay here forever, nor could she go back to her spying activities for André. There was no sense in returning to Philadelphia and live with the Shippens, not to mention the fact that Peggy would soon be Mrs Arnold and certainly have no use for her in her new household.

The Queen's Rangers had order to join the King's army in the south and he, as their commander, would have to lead them there. He couldn't take her with him, the battlefield was no place for a woman. A country in the middle of a war wasn't either.

Instead she was to leave with Akinbode, Abigail and Cicero to a save place of his second's choice. Wether Abigail was a rebel spy as he suspected or not, he promised, he would not care as long as she agreed to leave the country.

He would give her money- not as a gift, as he assured her to forestall her protests, but as a loan which she could pay him back sometime. She had saved his life twice. It was only appropriate to accept what little he could give her in exchange.

And it would allow her to start over again, to live her life on her own devices. Wasn't that what she had always wanted? To be independant and free?

 

His words were reasonable and still they did not ring true. There is something he is hiding from her, something he does not tell her. It is as it always was- they are so close and yet so far from each other.

 

 

He looks over to her and opens his mouth, but this time she knows, he won't say 'Come back to bed' like all the other times before. What he says instead is, "The time has come."

His voice sounds hollow. Marian nods. Her cases are packed, her matters arranged, her feelings strangely absent.

"Yes," she replies, and for the first time in months, she hears herself speaking again in the voice that is not her own. "I see the carriage coming. They're here."

She turns to him and the breath catches in her throat at the sight of him. It is impossible, that he will send her away, he _can't_ , he _won't_.

Marian opens her mouth but he forestalls her words. "Let's go then, shall we?" he says quickly, and overly cheerful. He takes her luggage and carries it out of the door and down the stairs.

She walks behind him like in a trance. Is this really how it's going to end, after all they've been through together? It cannot be. Surely, he will make up his mind at the very last moment, like an actor in a bad stage play, savour her desperation until the very end before telling her it had all been a bad joke, a final test.

 

Outside, the carriage is already waiting for them at the sidewalk. John walks over and stows her luggage in the back of it.

This is not a dream. She can see Akinbode, Abigail and Cicero waiting for her inside the carriage, their expressions are hard to read. This is really happening.

Her lover politely opens the carriage door for her and helps her step inside, a gentleman until the end. This is not a dream and thus, she will not wake up.

 

The driver cracks the whip over the horse's head and the carriage starts to roll down the street, slowly gaining pace, ten meters, then twenty, thirty-

But then, suddenly, it comes to a halt and her lover tears the door open and herself in his arms and holds her there, while she sobs uncontrollably at his shoulder and clutches his sleeves in frantic desperation.

"Don't leave me," she implores him inbetween sobs. " _I love you, I love you, I love you_." All her self control gone, any sense of dignity following in its wake. Some people have stopped walking in order not to miss the unexpected spectacle, but she couldn't care less.

 

John leans down to kiss her head, then he cups her wet chin in his hand to make her look at him. "Listen, listen to me now-" he says, his voice breaking. "This is no final farewell, do you hear me? The war is as good as won. André- André told me something yesterday." he whispers into her ear. "He is going to leave for West Point where Arnold promised to surrender the fort to him. This will most likely end the war and then-"

She has stopped crying and looks up at him." _West Point_ ," she repeats in a strange, dreamy voice. "Did he really say West Point?"

"Why, yes," he replies, confused at her reaction. "What about it? Is there anything you want to tell me?"

His eyes search hers and she looks back at him, unblinking. At last, she shakes her head. "No." she says. "It is nothing."

Her lover holds her to him again and kisses her. When he lets go of her mouth at last, he says: "Trust me, the war will be over soon. And when the time comes, _as soon as_ the time comes, I will follow you. I will find you, believe me. You _do_ believe me, don't you?"

Marian smiles through her tears. "How will you find me if you don't know where we're going?"

"Of course."Simcoe shakes his head, then turns to his former second, who looks a little embarrassed at the emotional scene taking place right in front of him, his wife-to-be and her son. "Of course, " he repeats. "Well, then. I've made up my mind. Where are you going?"

 

Akinbode's features light up in a broad smile. "Canada" he says.


End file.
